


Wolfish

by Dicax_Asina



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Arthur is a blushinng mess when confronted with affection, Bounty Hunter Reader, F/M, Fuck the O’Driscolls, High Honor Arthur Morgan, No TB in this fic, Reader is a dumbass with a heart of gold, Song: It Will Come Back (Hozier), The only mission in this that also appears in-game is “Blessed are the peacemakers”, This may or may have not been inspired by a certain irishman’s song, Which is exactly why he should be showered in it, You guessed it - Freeform, did i convince you yet?, she has a dog, that one, what’s new, yeah - Freeform, you know the one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-06 06:03:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 32
Words: 41,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18382451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dicax_Asina/pseuds/Dicax_Asina
Summary: ❝Reckon I'm a bit like a dog, aren't I? She showed me kindness once and now I keep thinking about coming back.❞❝A dog is far too domesticated for you, Arthur Morgan. You're a wolf.❞Alternatively: Arthur Morgan, the man you're supposed to capture, not only accidentally saves your life, but makes it a whole lot more complicated.





	1. Chapter 1

Most people don't go to the Cotorra hot springs because of an outlaw. Scratch that, most people don't go to the Cotorra springs altogether.

The night was slowly but surely creeping onto the sky. In spite of the rather dry, morbid landscape, there was something oddly bewitching about the springs, wether that was the unusually saturated colors the water presented, or its awfully inviting temperature, or the openness of the terrain, you didn't know.

But the springs were nice to look at, that much you were sure of. And a pretty good source of warmth as well. 

Your dog, Lobo, was padding around the pile of wood you were hoping to turn into a campfire, stopping from time to time to yawn, his white, sharp fangs peeking out from his snout. He seemed at ease, which was more than a good sign.

You'd heard that the area wasn't exactly hospitable, and, not to mention, was the territory of a huge wolf. No trace of it so far, however. You supposed you'd gotten lucky.

Still.

You couldn't help but wonder what exactly Arthur Morgan possibly hoped to find here. Isolation? Relaxation? You glanced at the hot springs again. Probably not. From what you'd heard, he wasn't that kind of person. Not the kind to abandon his gang (which, goddamnit, you still hadn't tracked down), not without a proper reason.

You jumped when Lobo nudged your side, a little whine escaping his throat before he looked at the deer carcass strapped onto your horse, just a few feet away.

Right. You still hadn't gotten the campfire started, in spite of the meat you were hoping to cook.

"Patience, we'll get there." You smiled down at the little animal and scratched the top of his head. His pointy ears lowered slightly as he pressed into your palm.

After showering Lobo with a little more affection, you reached for your satchel, taking out a box of matches, and an old letter. You crumbled it up, then set it on fire using the match before dropping it on top of the pile of wood, cupping your hands around it.

Seconds later, the flames spread out, creating a campfire. Perfect. You whistled over your horse, took out your hunting knife, cutting the rope that secured the carcass to it.

With heavy movements, you managed to drag off the weight from its back, and towards your campfire. Lobo circled around you, his fluffy tail wagging in excitement at the smell of fresh meat.

You could only agree with the sentiment.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You took another bite from cooked piece of meat on your hunting knife, closing your eyes to savor the texture. It wasn't seasoned, so the taste wasn't exquisite, but it was satisfactory, you supposed. More than satisfactory, considering the empty state of your stomach.

Your dog was chewing away on a bone, little crackles echoing in his mouth whenever he'd break off another piece. The fire's fine orange light bounced off his reddish-brown fur, creating shadows on his face and awakening that familiar amber glow in them, which you had grown to find homely. Warmth spread in your chest at the feeling of some kind of pseudo-safety. 

You'd hang onto whatever you could for now. Until you'd get enough money to pay off your family's debts and afford the care your aunt deserved. It was a distant dream, and you were fully aware that her disease was a ticking time bomb—but you didn't care.

All you'd have to do was catch Arthur Morgan, cash in the 5000 dollars of bounty on his head, and then you'd be carefree. (That was much easier said than done, though.)

You could buy a little ranch near a town, Strawberry, maybe, and help your aunt—the woman that raised you— spend her last few months in the peace she really did deserve. And then, you could try your luck at being a farmer, maybe. How hard could raising a few animals and watering crops be?

Less tough than chasing after outlaws, that much you were certain of.

You snapped out of your thoughts when Lobo sheepishly set his head on your lap before yawning.

"Good boy." You praised, ruffling his fur before shifting around on the wool blanket you had set on the ground. 

You'd find Arthur Morgan some time soon, you were sure of it. All you'd have to do was stay tenacious for a little while longer.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You jolted awake when you realized the space at your feet was cold and empty. The campfire had died out as well, nothing but a few flickering hot pieces of coal casting little to no light. You blinked away the tiredness from your eyes, propping yourself up on your elbow.

You squinted at the inky, thick darkness around you, trying to make out something. Your dog was gone. 

So was the deer carcass.

"Lobo! Here, boy!" You whistled, in the hopes of not having to get up to look for the him. The only thing you really wanted was sleep.

That however seemed to have been cut short by the fact that your call was left without a response. Everything around you was silent, aside from a shadow a quite a distance away from you, which you realized was your horse.

What the hell? When had you taken it that far away from camp?

You whistled again, and the mare cautiously approached, letting out a few neighs of displeasure as she came closer.

You got on your feet, rolling up the wool blanket and storing it on your horse once she had reached your side. You took the rifle out of the holster, then pat her neck. "Stay here, girl."

Fully awake by then, you easily reloaded it with a few deft movements, then proceeded to inspect the spot where you'd left the carcass the evening before. There was a trail of blood leading away from it, smeared against the dry, cracked earth. Well then.

"Lobo!" You called out again, in the hopes of finding your canine companion again, yet remained discouragingly fruitless. A whistle didn't change the situation either.

With a sigh, you tightened your grip around the rifle and stepped forward, deciding to follow the trail. It lead down the hill, away from the springs.

Your stomach churned in disapproval at the entire situation. You were supposed to be getting a good night's rest and then catching an outlaw, not this! Not following a trail of blood to find your lost dog.

And especially not if there were rumors of a huge wolf wandering about.

Your mouth suddenly felt cottony, unusually dry, and you found yourself having to concentrate on your breathing to quiet it down. Easy now. Lobo couldn't have gone far. Who knows, maybe he'd even found another clue that'd lead you closer to finding Arthur Morgan. There was no reason to lose your calm, not yet.

You jumped at the sound of paws against dry, crusty earth. "Lobo?" You asked, all reason and coolheadedness lost when you didn't receive a bark as an answer. 

A throaty snarl, right behind you caused your heart to skip a beat. You whipped around, yet were shocked to find the space empty.

"Whoever or whatever it is, show yourself!" You demanded, in spite of being fully aware that if it really was a human you were dealing with, your request would be futile, and even more so if it was, in fact, an animal. 

You loaded your rifle, jaw clenching as you continued looking around, yet couldn't recognize anything.

That was, until a howl ripped through the air.


	2. Chapter 2

You didn't even have time to react, much less think, until you were knocked down by an immense weight. Your stomach flipped when the you heard the sound of metal against the earth, quite a distance away from you. Your rifle, fuck. You had dropped it. 

The putrid smell of decaying meat mixed with the homely one of a dog's wet fur overcame you, and before you knew it, there was a sharp pain in your left shoulder.

You screamed out in agony, unable to think, to breathe, and only to fight.

Oh god, the wolf. It was the wolf you'd heard of.

Instinctively, your uninjured hand went to the left side of your hip, unsheathing the dagger you carried with you at all times, ramming it into whatever you could get a hold of.

The visceral sound of flesh being cut rang out soon enough, followed by a painful yowl, right next to your ear. Warm blood oozed all over the hand you held the knife with.

And yet the wolf wasn't backing down a bit. 

You rang for air, and at the same time, struggled to kick the animal away, fruitlessly.

Its fangs dug deeper into the wound on your shoulder. White invaded your vision, in spite of the darkness around you.

With your last bit of strength, you pulled out the knife and rammed it into another spot, hoping you'd hit something vital.

Boom!

It took you a few seconds to realize what exactly the small explosion was.

You'd never been happier to hear another man's rifle being fired as much as in that moment.

The weight holding you down increased, the wild animal slumping down on top of you, but its hold on your shoulder loosened. You felt like you could breathe.

"Y'alright there?" A male voice coated in a southern accent spoke up. Unusually warm and calm considering the events that has just taken place.

"Yeah. I— Jesus Christ. Yeah." You groaned, struggling off the dead animal off of you. Your throbbing shoulder wasn't exactly helping.

You heard steps to your right. Quicker than you could comprehend, you were freed from below the weight, staring up at the cloudy night sky. Your mind was hazy at best, high-pitched ringing in your ears and pulse racing against your chest from the fading rush of adrenaline.

"That don' look too good." You could hardly make out your savior's features, yet were able to recognize a tall, wide frame towering above you. With your uninjured hand, you reached up to the wound. Your shirt was soaked with blood (your last clean shirt, damnit) and you didn't even dare touch the flesh.

He crouched down beside you. In the moonlight, you could make out his harsh, rugged features, as well as his watchful gaze, of a color you couldn't pinpoint because of your lightheadedness and the dim moonlight.

"Never been the kinda person to pride myself in my looks anyways." You answered, forcing a smile onto your face. Maybe he had saved you, but who knew what his real intentions were? Letting your guard down, or worse, even showing weakness, did not seem like a particularly bright idea. "Thanks, by the way."

"Probably ain't the best idea to lay on the ground with an open injury for too long." He ignored your thanks, and instead reached out a hand for you to take. "If you can joke, I reckon you can stand too."

"Yeah." You reluctantly took his hand, and were surprised at how easily he had pulled you back onto your feet. Your surroundings were losing their already lacking saturation, and your guts felt unbearably hot, like you had downed nothing but acid in the past few minutes. 

You drew in a sharp breath, and held back a wince at another sting of pain in your shoulder. 

You practically jumped out of your skin when the man suddenly whistled, loudly enough to rival nails being dragged across a blackboard. You were about to ask what exactly he thought he was doing, until a dark brown horse appeared in your field of view, stopping beside the man.

Nonchalantly, he walked over to the carcass of the beast he'd shot not more than a minute ago, and picked it up like it was a sack of potatoes. Then he began to tie it onto the back of his horse.

Taking that as his silent way of bidding you farewell, you looked around for your rifle, simultaneously digging through your satchel in the search of whiskey and medicine.

"What were ya doin' out in the wilds by yourself, if ya don't mind me askin'?" He spoke up, yet a quick glance over your shoulder confirmed he still hadn't turned around to face you.

You decided to tell him part of the truth. "I lost my dog."

A chuckle rumbled against his chest, and he finally did turn around to face you, casually leaning against his horse. "Your dog?"

"Yeah." You answered defensively, bending down to pick up your rifle. "What's so funny about that?"

"Nothin'." He said, then paused for a second. "Unless it's a smaller, yappier version of a german shepherd. Brown fur."

What?

"You— how?" You stuttered, spinning on your heels to face him, resisting the urge to double over and clutch your shoulder after the pain caused by the sudden movement.

"Came up to me while I was sleepin'." The man said. "Little rascal."

"What did you do to him?" You asked through gritted teeth, from both the increasing pain in your shoulder and the fear of losing your trusty companion.

"Calm down, woman. Do I look like some kinda serial dog killer to ya?" He laughed through his nose, little smirk playing on his lips as he watched you approach him. "Just fed him some scraps o' meat and tied him to my tent."

Almost immediately, you pointed your rifle at him. "Alright. Then you go get him, and bring him right here," You grabbed the reins of his horse before he had the chance to react. "where I'll be waiting. With your trusty steed."

You weren't planning on shooting him, obviously, but you couldn't be sure of his intentions. Or if he really was telling the truth about Lobo. You hoped he was.

The man was surprised for not more than a few seconds, then raised his palms up in submission. "Or...I could just take you there. Free of charge."

That sounded...fair enough. He seemed anything but enthusiastic to leave his horse with you. Maybe he really needed it, or the huge wolf, for whatever reason. Perhaps even both.

"I got some medicine there too." He added after the short pause. Was he trying to be convincing?

Talking surely wasn't his strong point, that much you'd figured out by now. Whoever this man was, he seemed to be the kind of person to use intimidation rather than persuasion to bring his point across.

"And why would you want to waste your supplies on me?" You insisted, not lowering the rifle for a bit. 

"Keep forcing your luck like that and I might just change my goddamn mind." 

You grit your teeth, then holstered the weapon. You could trust him. For now at least, you hoped. 

"Alright. But I'm leaving as soon as I have my dog."

"Be my guest." He sighed, retrieving a pack of cigarettes from his satchel, setting one on fire using a match. He took a drag from it, then looked at you, nodding at his horse. "Come on now, we don't got all day."


	3. Chapter 3

He was quite the gentleman, or as close as a man you'd met in the middle of nowhere could get. He'd oh-so-kindly offered you a seat on his horse. So there you were, on the saddle, clutching your shoulder, the fur of the beast that may have just caused all of this brushing against your back with every step the steed took.

The man was walking beside the animal, holding the reins loosely.

"How far is that camp?"

"With every single word that comes out of your mouth, you make me wish more and more I'd let that thing get the best of ya." He switched the cigarette from one corner of his mouth to the other. "It ain't far."

"You've mentioned that before."

"Well that's because it ain't far."

Silence.

"A more precise description would be nice."

You'd never heard a sigh contain such a perfect combination of both anger and annoyance. Until then.

"How about you bring the map and I'll bring the pencil next time, and I'll show you goddamn precise." He growled under his breath.

"Alright, what scale should the map be?" You answered on the same tone.

"I'm prayin' to whatever's out there I won't see you again anytime soon." Now that he was looking down, it was impossible to see his face, but you were certain there was a small, barely visible smirk on it. 

You chuckled in amusement, yet were cut short by another sharp pain in your shoulder. Goddamnit. Your whole arm had started pulsating, and you were more than certain that the blood had soaked up through at least half of your shirt.

He had caught up on the subtle hiss of pain, yet hadn't said anything about it. "You know, I had—have?...ah, it don't matter— I had a friend once that uh...got mauled by wolves too. Marston's his name." Was he...trying to distract you from the pain? "They got his face ripped up pretty bad. Poor bastard wasn't so lucky."

"Is that supposed to mean I'm on a roll right now?"

He chuckled, and you couldn't help but note it sounded lighthearted and genuine for once. "Sure, if that's what you wanna call it."

"Speaking of calling. I don't know what to call you."

He paused, and you didn't even need to see his face to know that his thoughts were racing. However the silence did not last longer than a second.

"Callahan. Arthur Callahan."

Only then were you reminded of the reason you had even gotten into the whole situation. 

Arthur Morgan. Was he...? Could he be him? You hadn't properly looked at Morgan's wanted poster, at least not enough to have his features ingrained into your brain, and hadn't caught a proper glimpse of this man's face either. And then again, the name Arthur was anything but rare, and the family names didn't coincide. He could've used a fake one, of course, but he could've also just been an unfortunate guy that happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or the other way around, considering he'd saved you, you supposed.

"(Y/n) (l/n)." 

"I'd love to shake hands with you, miss (l/n), but..." His quick gaze skipped to your bloodied right hand, which you were pressing over the injury to stop the bleeding. "I think I'll hold back for now."

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

He hadn't lied about his camp being far. In roughly ten minutes of leisurely walking, you'd reached a dying campfire and a tent. Beside it, you recognized a small and furry sleeping figure you knew far too well.

"Believe me now?" Arthur asked, letting go of the reins. A heavy sentiment of guilt settled in your stomach: you'd misjudged him. Pointing a gun at him, every snarky word addressed at him—you felt genuinely bad about your behavior. But then again, it was better safe than sorry, and you'd rather be rude than dead.

"Yeah. Sorr-" You caught yourself before you finished your apology, and corrected it in the hopes of him not noticing. "So. How'd you find my dog, again?"

Lobo's ears immediately perked up when he heard your voice. With quick, playful movements, he'd uncurled from the position he slept in, pulling against the rope that tied him to Arthur's tent taut in an attempt to reach you.

"Came up to me in the middle of the night and started lickin' my face." Arthur chuckled. He approached his tent and untied the rope from around Lobo's neck. The dog immediately ran up to the horse you were seated on. "You better tie him up next time, before he goes around lickin' the entire nation's mugs."

"Will do, thanks for the suggestion." You shifted your right leg to sit on the saddle sideways, then dropped to the ground. Even after such a small fall, you were reminded of the wound, throbbing and soaking through your shirt further and further. It was best you'd start leaving now that you'd retreived Lobo. Though it was admittedly quite foolish of you to have left your horse back at camp—you doubted it could hear you from your current location.

"Well, I should—"

"Do you—" The both of you spoke at the same time. A pregnant pause followed, in which Arthur coughed awkwardly. "Uh, you first."

"I was...gonna say that I should get leaving." You answered, then whistled for Lobo to follow. "And you?"

"I was 'boutta say the opposite." 

"That's..." unusually kind? almost outrageously polite for a man you'd literally met in a forest not more than 10 minutes ago? "...very unexpected, mister Callahan. I..."

"Look, you don't gotta stay if you really find me that terrifyin', but I figured this is the least I can do for someone that helped me get a proper shot on the wolf I'd been after for a few days." He scratched the nape of his neck.

"So that's what this is about?" You held back a laugh at the situation. "You feel guilty for accidentally using me as bait?"

"Now that you put it that way..." He sighed, then grunted. "Yeah."


	4. Chapter 4

"It ain't the best whiskey out there, but you're in no position to complain. Catch." Arthur mumbled before tossing a halfway spent bottle of whiskey in your direction. You used your uninjured hand and managed to do as he had demanded of you quite easily. 

"Thank you, mister Callahan." You smiled at him thankfully and held the bottle using your thighs, then unscrewed the lid with one hand. Without a second thought, and almost too eagerly, you tossed a few swigs of the alcohol down your throat. The liquid burned pleasantly, leaving a toasty sensation behind in your gut. It didn't take much alcohol nor time for your head to get dizzy and for the pain to morph into numbness.

You hadn't even noticed Arthur retrieving a rag and approaching you reluctantly.

"Ain't gotta thank me for somethin' I picked off a dead man's corpse." Corpse? He paused for a second, processing his words and the subtle furrow of your brow. Then, he added a rushed: "Found 'im in the woods a few days ago. How's the uh...wound?"

"It's...not as painful anymore."

"Good. Here." He dropped the rag in your lap, then casually strode away, towards his horse.

You picked up the piece of fabric, which admittedly did look like it had seen better days, and dampened it with some of the whiskey.

Meanwhile, Arthur was cutting the ropes that secured the wolf carcass to his horse. You couldn't help but stop to watch: How easily he'd lifted it off the steed's back, how easily he'd carried it closer to the campfire like it was nothing, how he kneeled down next to it, and how he did finally catch you staring, then looked down to hide a smirk under the edge of his hat.

"You sure you wanna put that much alcohol on an open wound?" He nodded at the rag, which you had accidentally soaked with whiskey by then. You were fully aware of that, of course you were, you'd treated injuries before, and yet—

"I think I can handle it." Damned be your stubbornness and pride. You folded the fabric neatly, hoping that it would give you more precision when cleaning your wound.

"Sure." Arthur shrugged, and, without another word, pushed his hunting knife into the wolf's belly, slashing a straight line across it. There was something oddly...calming about the sound of ripping flesh, considering the context of it: belonging from the beast that had almost gotten the best of you.

You spun yourself around a bit, just enough to face away from him, and undid the top buttons of your shirt. Peeling off the blood-soaked fabric from your gash was just about as pleasant as you'd expected.

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself, then brought the rag against the tender flesh. A hiss of pain slipped from your mouth, and you had to clench your jaw to stop any other sound of utter displeasure from escaping.

Arthur only watched you wordlessly, an amused look plastered on his face, which practically screamed 'I told you'. 

You did your best to ignore him and carried on with nursing your wound. That however was made nearly impossible from the waves of pain going through you at even the smallest touch.

Come on. You'd been foolish enough to claim you could take it, and you'd be damned if you were going to back down now. You squeezed your eyes shut, clutched the rag tightly—

"You either got a knack for pain or ain't ever treated an injury before, so which one is it?"

Pride, you wanted to say, but refrained. You didn't need to open your eyes to know he'd stood up and began walking towards you—the sound of a knife being sheathed and rustling of fabric were enough to give it away. "Neither." You answered through gritted teeth, pressing the rag to the injury. Setting your skin on fire could've been considered a pastime compared to this.

"Gimme that." His big hand was on top of yours and pulled it away—his grip was cautious but firm—then peeled off the rag as well. "Now, unless you're eager to be the first person to get a hangover from treatin' an injury, you mix the alcohol with water. Clean water."

A quick glance over your injured shoulder confirmed that he was unscrewing a flask. He took the lid between his teeth, then poured out some of the content, which you guessed was water, onto the rag.

He twisted you around unexpectedly gently, so that your back faced him, and dabbed the cloth over the wound. 

An awkward silence plagued the air, nothing but the hushed sounds of his and your breath to fill it. From the slight reluctance in his moves, you could only guess he wasn't used to touching others a lot. Or at least not treating injuries.

You took that as a good sign—Arthur Morgan was, as far as you knew, part of a gang. A really important part too. It would only make sense for him to be extroverted and good at communicating. Which this Arthur clearly...wasn't the best at.

You almost caught a part of you hoping this man wouldn't be the outlaw you were after. Wouldn't it be a shame, after all? He seemed genuinely kind.

You supposed there was only one way to really find out.

"And what brought you to the Cotorra springs, mister Callahan?"

It was obvious your question had startled him in the slightest: Arthur drew in a deep breath, and momentarily stopped the careful process of cleaning your wound.

"The wolf." He answered simply.

That sounded like a rather...bland purpose. Perhaps he was a hunter? No, that couldn't be it. The wolf hunting season, as far as you knew, started in the autumn. September, if you were correct. "The wolf? That all?"

"Why, you wanna know where to act as bait the next time too?" He asked, and you could literally hear out the smirk in his tone. 

"Well, I-" You were cut off when the bloodstained rag was dropped in your lap.

"You can take care of the bitemarks on the front, can'tcha?" He shuffled away from you. You heard him plop down next to the campfire, a few meters away from the wolf carcass. "I guess you could say I'm just here to earn some fair money."

That sounded both exactly like the Arthur Morgan you'd imagined, but at the same time, radically different.


	5. Chapter 5

After you'd dabbed away the blood on the frontside of your shoulder, you were more than keen on getting some rest.

That was, however, much easier said than done, considering the fact that you hadn't bandaged the injury, and not washed out the blood from your shirt either.

And the fact that you were quite sick of bring the damsel in distress, in spite of not being given much of a choice. Goddamn wolves.

Biting your lip, you stumbled onto your feet. Your stomach's scarce contents already felt like they were rising, your head boiled with heat and pulsated with your heartbeat. Bloodloss and its many perks. 

You had already let yourself get bitten by a wolf, acted like a goddamn fool in front of this man not once, but twice, and if there was one last thing you were most certainly planning on not doing, it was passing out. Or throwing up.

With that in mind, you swallowed down the cottony feeling in your mouth (as well as your pride — or what was left of it), and approached Arthur's campfire languidly. A few miscalculated steps and movements later, you could proudly announce that you'd collapsed somewhere near it and him. There was also Lobo brushing against your shins, though you'd barely felt the dog pass you by.

"Do you— do you have a bandage...?" You stuttered out. Your pride must've been in the negative by then. Arthur's gaze had found its way onto your face, and while it could have been your imagination or the lightheadedness, you could've sworn there was a slight trace of genuine worry flashing on his expression.

"You look like you might need more than just one, but yeah." He dug through his satchel, then you tossed something. Luckily enough, he'd figured your reflexes were little to nonexistent by then, and had aimed for your lap.

"Thanks." You said, picking it up unrolling some of it, and turning away from him, you slipped the button down shirt off your right arm entirely. Languidly, you started wrapping it around your shoulder, stopping every few seconds to gather yourself. For some reason, even making circle motions with your hands felt nauseating. 

When you finally were done with it, you slipped your arm back inside your shirt, and buttoned it up all the way. 

For some reason, even the slight bit of pressure from the bandage already felt calming. Soothing. You set your hand over the juncture of your neck and sighed in relief.

"Better?" Your head whipped around when the man — Arthur — asked you that. He'd already collapsed on top of a blanket, laying on his side, facing away from you. You'd been half-expecting him to be staring at your naked back, so to be completely honest, that was a relieving surprise.

"Yeah. Thank you. For everything." You began, scouting the ground for a place that looked at least a bit more comfortable and clean than the rest. There, a bit closer to the campfire.

You dropped to your knees, then let yourself collapse onto the ground, sucking in a breath after your injury stung from the impact. You closed your eyes and curled up, bringing your knees closer to your chest. You weren't to keen on sleeping on the bare ground — but then again, it's not like you had much of a choice. And not like you favored no rest at all over rest of horrible quality.

You were more than glad when you felt Lobo curl up behind you, warm fur brushing up against your back.

With the assurance of your pet's presence, you found it somewhat easier to drift off to sleep. Your breaths were getting shallower, world around you going dark before you knew it.

"You ain't sleeping on the grass, ain'tcha?"

Out of instinct, you reached for your rifle, but restrained yourself from going further. You weren't exactly used to hearing human voices while out in the wild, but you had been lucky to remember that day's events even in your sleepy daze. 

"Can't exactly be picky." You answered, and wanted to shrug, but quickly realized you probably shouldn't.

Silence followed, accompanied by a sigh. You didn't even need to look at the man to know he was pinching the bridge of his nose. "There's an...old coat in the saddlebags. 'S more of a rag than anything now, but...it's better than sleeping on the ground, ain't it?"

You hadn't even dared of hoping for him to offer you anything at all, especially after everything he'd done for you, but it seemed like you were underestimating him. An outlaw wouldn't be doing this, a voice on the back of your mind told you, and part of you desperately wanted to agree. Whoever this Arthur you'd stumbled across was...he seemed like a good man. A grumpy one so far, admittedly, but so far, unusually kind.

"That's..." you struggled to find the right words, and then decided to opt for an approach that contained little to none. He'd be thankful for silence, you supposed.  "Thank you, mister Callahan. You're too kind." 

You sat up, then forced yourself to stand. Lobo lifted his head at the sudden movement, and tilted his head as he watched you drag yourself towards Arthur's horse.

"I wouldn't be too hasty with my judgement regardin' strange men I just met in the woods if I were you." Came the answer that shut the voice in the back of your head right up.

You dug through the saddlebags' contents, stumbling across rifles and a lot more rings than a man could ever wear (and had to admit you were tempted to take one, but ultimately refrained). Until you pulled out a blue fabric, plastered with wool on the inside. Even holding it in your hand felt inviting.

You only found a piece roughly big enough for your torso to lie on, and decided you'd be more than happy with that. There were ripped strings on its sides, from what you guessed had been stitches.

You cuddled the fabric closer to your chest and walked back to the spot you'd previously chosen. Without too much of a hassle, you'd already set yourself down on top of it. It wasn't the peak of comfort, obviously, but it was a much welcome upgrade from the bare floor. It smelled slightly of gunpowder, but you didn't mind.

"Goodnight, mister Callahan."

"G'night."


	6. Chapter 6

Your mouth was bitter and dry when you woke up, and your throat felt like an old book page. It took you a second or two to adjust to the morning light, and to the throbbing pain in your shoulder.

Oh. Not a dream.

You stretched your legs, and realized, almost fearfully, that the warmth of Lobo's fur against your back was missing.

Shit, not again.

You stood up frantically, looking around, reaching for the rifle strapped to your back until you heard a chuckle behind you.

"Oh, good. Y'made it through the night." It was a statement more than anything. And the voice belonged to none other than last night's hero but also newfound dilemma. Arthur. "How's the wound?"

He was sitting on a nearby tree trunk, and Lobo, the little traitor, was wagging his tail and enjoying a belly rub from him.

"It's better." You said plainly, tension subsiding from your shoulders. You stored the rifle away again, and reluctantly began approaching him on wobbly legs. "Though I'd take a gunshot wound over this any day."

He tilted his head and looked almost genuinely surprised. "Really?"

"Yeah." You stated, then laughed through your nose. "What's so strange about that?"

"Well, nothin', I just... it's nice if they don't shoot back for a change, I think." Arthur reached inside his satchel and retrieved a pack of cigarettes, taking one out and lighting it on fire.

"So what? They bite instead." 

He took a drag from the cigarette, smoke  bursting past his lips at every word he then spoke. "Listen, unlike you, I don't go around huggin' every wolf I see."

"Seems like you go around saving people like me,though." You grinned and tilted your head a bit to be able to peek at his expression from under his hat. A sly smile tugging only on the right corner of his mouth graced his features.

"And finding their horses too." He nodded to his left, and you noticed your brown steed hitched up by a nearby tree. You wondered how distracted you must've been to not notice something as blatantly obvious as that until then."Or, what I hope is their horse."

"That is her." You confirmed, then looked back at him. "How—"

"Doesn't take a genius to find a steed in the middle of nowhere." He answered with a shrug before standing up from where he was seated, leisurely hooking his thumbs behind his belt while he walked over to the slowly dying campfire. He kicked some earth into the flames, watching them flicker before effacing into smoke. "Well, a domesticated one, that is."

You had to hold back a small, sad smile as the memories of a seventeen year old version of yourself flashed before your eyes, lasso clutched tightly in one hand as you ran after horses. The good old days, when your aunt hadn't fallen sick yet, and you had been living in blissful unawareness. Of course, you'd been poor even back then, but also foolish enough to believe that catching wild horses, and then domesticating and selling them would be a lucrative business.

"Don't worry, wild horses aren't exactly what one would call masters at hiding in plain sight." You smirked and picked up the piece of material you'd used as a makeshift bed the night before. Slowly ambling towards Arthur's horse, you folded it, then stuffed it back into one of the saddlebags.

When you turned around, you found him leaning against a tree, rolling up the blanket he had slept on.

"I take it you haven't heard of the white arabian up in West Grizzlies, then?" He asked, and you failed to tell wether he was mocking you or genuinely asking. 

You frowned. "...no?" You said reluctantly, stepping away from his horse and towards him. "Should I have?"

"Reckon not. Lessens the competition." Arthur answered, punctuating his sentence with a dismissive shrug before he walked to his horse and tied the blanket to its saddle.

"Hold on, now. You're trying to catch a wild horse? Up in the mountains?" If it wasn't for his sternness and all around demeanor of little to nothing but seriousness, you'd taken it as a joke. A horse? In the middle of goddamn nowhere?

"Didn't believe it either until I saw tracks. Rumor has it it's a white Arabian. And that it hates people even more than I do."

You chuckled and crouched down to Lobo's level, scratching the dog behind his ears before looking back up at Arthur, who had been watching you intently. "So you're part of the rumor, or what?"

"Will be, if I catch it."

That got you thinking. A white Arabian? Those could well be worth a few hundred! You could put your above average horse taming skills to use, benefit from Arthur's extra pair of hands at that too, and then ask for half the profit. This could turn out more than beneficial, if you played your part well.

"You considered asking for help?"

"Why, you considered offerin' it?" He shot back, untying his horse from the tree. Gripping its reins in his hand, he turned towards you, and watched you intently for any reaction.

"I mean...not to brag, or anything of the sort, but I used to catch wild horses for a living." You stopped for a second, interrupted by Arthur laughing through his nose. "What?"

"Figures why you're so filthy rich." He sighed, then shook his head. 

"It's not like I knew any better! Besides, it was kind of the only thing I was good at when I was nothing more than a kid." You retorted, almost annoyed at the fact that you felt strangely...embarrassed. Shame and guilt were little somethings you often avoided partaking in, mainly because you found that, at the end of the day, it didn't matter that much what people thought of you. And yet, when faced with a man you'd met less than 48 hours ago—

"Alright, calm down. If your wound's feelin' better, then yeah, sure, I could use an extra pair of hands."

"Sounds like a deal, mister Callahan."


	7. Chapter 7

A few minutes of persuasion (and assuring Arthur that your wound was much better) later, you found yourself on the back of your horse as it lazily trotted just behind your newfound acquaintance's. Lobo had to run a bit to be able to keep up, but you knew for a fact your dog never minded running for miles on end. You even suspected it made him happy.

Arthur seemed to know exactly which way he was going, and for a second, you wondered if he had a compass somewhere in his hands or just knew the road that well. Regardless, the continuously dropping temperatures only confirmed you were headed north — well, north-east, but you couldn't be bothered to be nitpicky. Not when a walking compass was leading the way. Well, a riding compass, but still.

"So, you was sayin' you used to catch horses for a livin'?" You almost flinched the moment he started talking.

You'd taken Arthur Callahan for an adept of silence until the moment he'd spoken up after quite a pause. Though one look at him immediately told you otherwise: he wasn't even close to planning on being talkative. Just curious.

A part of you started wondering why exactly. Surely, especially after the not-so-grand entrance you'd made, he couldn't find you all that interesting. And the other part — the one that won— was more than glad to indulge him. "Well, not for a living, but...in an attempt to make some extra cash. I already had everything else I needed, food and shelter-wise." That alone had earned a confused frown from him, and you clarified: "Because of my aunt. She took me in when I was just a kid."

"Hm." Was the only sound Arthur had deemed worthy as an answer for you. He glanced down at the reins he'd clasped lazily in one hand, then leaned forward to give his horse a pat on the side of its neck. There was a certain absence in his motions, punctuating the wheels turning in his head. "Wish I had an aunt that coulda taken me in."

"Why, what's your story, then, mister Callahan?" You asked, spurring on your horse just enough to make it trot beside his. 

"Ah, jus' pick up any novel about any orphaned boy and it'll be right there."

You frowned. His personality was an unusual mix of both brash honesty as well as secrecy and it sure did a marvelous job at confusing the living hell out of you. Who exactly was this man you considered a decent fellow?

"Come on, now, surely there's something that sets you apart." You smiled, hoping that would be enough to coax him into giving away more.

"I wouldn't hold my breath if I were you." He stated plainly, then spurred on his horse a little. You didn't know why, but you were set on finding out more about him. And you'd be damned if you weren't going to.

"Can I try guessing, then?"

He tilted his head when he looked at you, cocking a brow. "Guessing what?"

"Your past."

There was a look of surprise on his face, but Arthur made a quick job of concealing it with his hat and then looking straight ahead to avoid your gaze. "Sure."

"Your parents died in an accident of some sort?"

"No."

"Robbery?"

"No."

"Shooting?"

Instead of giving you the low, disinterested 'no', he stopped for a second, pondering his following words. He started up at the sky for a few more seconds, then hesitantly answered: "One of 'em."

"And the other?"

"I thought you was doing the guessing." Arthur said, then pulled the reins, bringing his horse to a halt. " 's gonna get cold soon, we should put on our coats."

He hadn't even bothered being subtle about changing the subject, though you supposed subtlety wasn't part of his strengths. Still, after realizing that he had avoided the subject like it was the plague, you couldn't help but think that you might have gone too far with your questioning. Subtlety didn't seem to be your forte either. You moved your gaze down to your hands, fiddling with the reins. 

He had dropped down from the saddle, and begun digging through its bags without paying you any mind. Was he ignoring you? Christ, you really had struck a nerve, hadn't you? The uneasy, cold feeling of guilt settled in your stomach.

"I'm sorry." You blurted out before you could even process what you were doing.

Arthur stopped his search abruptly. You could practically feel his glance rest on you without even looking at him. Great. To think that you'd been blaming this man for lacking talent in the art of diction when you were like this? 

"Sorry? The hell you feelin' sorry for?" He asked, and suddenly, the tension you hadn't even realized had built in your shoulders subsided. 

"I...don't know." You laughed nervously and buried your face in your hands. What was wrong with you? You weren't like this! Not so helpless, so clumsy, so incalculable and all-around foolish. But why did this man make you feel like the biggest idiot to ever walk on-

"Come on now, we got a horse to catch. Unless you'd rather bail on me. In which case, Valentine is that w-"

"No." You said firmly, then bit your lip. "I said I would do it, so I ain't backing down until I have."

"Well then. I'm waitin', but the storm ain't." Arthur nodded at the sky, then slung the jacket he'd pulled out of the saddlebag over his back. You followed his gesture with your gaze, and your stomach almost dropped at the unwelcoming, grim color of the sky in the direction you were headed. 

You tried swallow down the uneasiness building in your chest, then glided off your horse easily. Realizing you had stopped for a break, Lobo had sat down right beside you, tongue hanging out of his mouth as he heaved from the effort watched and Arthur put on his coat. There was something sharp and attentive in the dog's usually lazy and playful gaze.

As you turned around to search for your own jacket you couldn't help but wonder what exactly you'd gotten yourself into.


	8. Chapter 8

You reckoned looking for a white horse in the middle of the mountains with a snowstorm raging around you wasn't the smartest thing you'd done, but alas, not the stupidest either.

Arthur was shielding his face with his forearm as he looked around, squinting to be able to make out something around him. You spurred on your horse towards him just a little, closing the distance between the two of you, which brought you a strange kind of comfort. You checked for Lobo, and were more than glad to see him padding right beside your hose, keeping up with you in spite of the snow that reached up to his chest.

"We ain't gon' find anythin' like this!" Arthur shouted over the howling wind. You were inclined to agree, but at the same time...

"So we came all this way for nothing?" You paused, surprised with how wrecked your voice sounded from continuously inhaling the cold air. "I'm not going back without that damned horse!"

"You got a death wish, woman?" Arthur shouted at you. For the first time since you'd met him, he sounded genuinely concerned. Angry, almost. "Because unless that's the case, we should head ba—"

You practically lost your breath the moment your eyes landed on a silhouette behind him, far enough to be barely recognizable but just there if one squinted enough. A horse.

You put your hand on his shoulder and brought your index up to your lips in the hopes of getting your point across. Arthur flinched away from your hand on him, seemingly taken aback by the sudden contact, but recollected himself before you could even think of asking him about it.

Instead, heeding your instructions of keeping silent to the T, he furrowed his brows and gave you a questioning glance.

"There." You whispered and pointed behind him. Curiously, his gaze followed, and the moment he instinctively lowered himself you knew he'd seen it too. "Think that's the one?"

"Here's hopin'." He carefully dropped down from his horse, then gestured for you to stay. "I got this."

"I think you're forgetting who the horse catching expert is—" You retorted, but he ignored you, retrieving a lasso from his satchel, approaching the white silhouette in an almost panther-like fashion.

Sighing to yourself, you crossed your arms and propped them against the back of your horse's neck, deciding to watch him. With just a glance at Lobo, you already knew he'd perfectly understood that he should stick with you.

The snow crunched under Arthur's boots while he got closer and closer, just within the right range to throw a lasso at the arabian. You could see him tense, readying himself—

The horse's ears perked up. Before you could blink, it was already galloping off, leaving a disappointed Arthur standing in the snow, rope still tightly clutched in his right hand.

"Shit!" He cussed. You took the reins from his horse, spurred yours on in the slightest, guiding Arthur's steed to trot behind you. You caught up to him, smirk playing on your lips as you looked down at him.

"Should've let the expert handle it, cowboy." Your smile was a combination of cheeky and prideful as you watched him mount his horse again.

"Experience ain't worth shit if the damned thing runs off the moment it spots you." He retorted, rolling up the rope before storing it back in his satchel.

"So you're giving up, is that it?"

"You wish, wolf hugger." His tone both mocked you and tempted you to a snarky response. And you being you—well, you didn't even think of refraining. 

"The only thing I wish is for you to let someone capable handle the job."

"Maybe I shoulda let someone capable handle the job when you was gettin' mauled by a wolf, 'n see how that woulda gone."

Silence. You couldn't even dream of coming up with an answer good enough to rival that. So you lowered your head instead, preoccupying yourself with looking for the Arabian's tracks. Luckily, it didn't take you long to find them.

"Let's track down the horse. It can't have gotten too far, and I reckon the storm can't last for much longer either."

"Well, don't look at me, you're the expert." Arthur mocked.

Damn him.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The storm had calmed, subsided into nothing but a peaceful snowfall around you, even going as far as allowing rays of sunshine to peek through the clouds. No trace of the violent weather from less that fifteen minutes ago. 

Neither you, nor Arthur bothered talking, the both of you focused on the task at hand: tracking down the white Arabian. Besides, you couldn't say you minded the silence. Not at all, in fact. Steeds leisurely walking beside each-other so that you could both allow Lobo to keep up but also keep an eye on the tracks, you could almost call it relaxing. That was, until-

"The hell do you think you're doing—!" You almost jumped off your horse when Arthur leaned over to pull its reins for you, bringing it to a brusque stop.

"You're so focused on the damn tracks you don't see what's right in front of ya?" He whispered, and you followed his gaze towards a hill.

The white Arabian! 

Now that you could properly see it, its white coat bathed in the warm afternoon sun, you just had to stop for a moment to marvel at its beauty. It was practically one with the snow, like some kind of mystic forest creature that controls the weather, or has the power to breathe ice, or—

"Staring at it ain't gonna tame it, y'know."

"Neither does scaring it off." You retorted, slowly getting off your horse. That earned an amused huff from him. "Stay here. And make sure Lobo does too, if you'd be so kind."

"Sure." 

Arthur actually listened, surprisingly. 

You felt his watchful eyes rest on you. You weren't one for getting too easily embarrassed or shy, but for some reason, him watching made you...hyper aware of every single mistake you could possibly make. Wether that was advantageous or not, you failed to tell.

Snow crunching under your boots, you approached the horse, and immediately shifted into a stance of submission the moment it laid eyes on you. "Easy there." You cooed, stopping for a second. It neighed uneasily, but didn't seem to plan on taking off. Not yet, at least. "Easy."

When it returned to only watching you without showing any signs of nervousness, you took another cautious step forward. "Shh."

The weight of two gazes was now on you, and God, did it take a lot out of you to not allow yourself even the smallest mistake. Another step. "That's it."

Not more than five meters away now, a tremor went down the animal's spine, causing its white fur to tremble like snowflakes in the wind. A pretty sight you would've gladly stopped to take in for a bit longer, if it weren't for the rush of anxiety Arthur caused to well up within you. That damned man.

"Be good now. I'm not gonna hurt you." You explained, palms up in submission, closing the last bit of remaining space between you and the Arabian. You reached out to its muzzle, allowing it to sniff your gloved hand, then slowly brought it up to its forehead, petting it ever-so-lightly. It neighed, but only made a minimal movement of pulling away. "That's it." You praised. The other hand was gingerly placed on its jaw, drifting lower to its neck, giving it another pat. "Good. Stay like this for me, will you? Won't take long. Promise."

You slowly reached for your satchel and retrieved some rope, trying it over its muzzle loosely, then over its forehead and neck, creating some makeshift reins. 

That was over with, at least. But the fun had only just begun: breaking it was next. A glance in Arthur's direction confirmed he was very much aware of that as well.


	9. Chapter 9

"Okay, I'll have a go at breaking it, and you get your lasso ready in case it decides to run o—"

"Break it? With that shoulder?" He scoffed in amusement, getting off his horse to slowly approach you. When Arthur caught sight of your slightly hurt but nonetheless determined expression, he sighed, crossing his arms. "If this about provin' yourself of somethin' like that, then know—"

"No. This is about showing you how it's done." You faked confidence, not even thinking twice before positioning yourself at the horse's side, giving him one last smug glance. "Watch and learn, cowboy."

The events that followed weren't something to learn from, but quite certainly something to watch.

The horse had tried to buck you off before you'd even managed to climb onto its back properly, which resulted in you wrapping your arms around its neck and hanging onto it for dear life—but that didn't last long either. Seconds later, you realized you'd been practically flung off the steed, and landed ungracefully on the ground. 'Ungracefully', of course, being a light way of putting 'face-first'.

The sounds around you were muffled by the snow caving around your form, but one thing you'd heard clearly: "I gotta give it to ya, that's quite the way to tame a horse."

Next thing you knew, Lobo had dug himself into the snow beside you and started pushing against your side and wagging his tail. You groaned, then slowly pushed yourself up, the familiar pain from yesterday making itself known in the bite mark on your shoulder. Your dog, bless him, attempted to help by licking your face, and while it really didn't help at all, you could appreciate the intention. Unlike Arthur, who didn't—

"You alright?" The man asked almost worriedly while he approached you. You noticed he'd tied the Arabian to a nearby tree, and had to admit he'd done it admirably quickly.

"Yeah." You confirmed, though the answer was more instinctual than truthful, and you sat up. Arm shaky, you reached for your shoulder, moving away your clothes just enough to slip it below and check the bandage. 

"Good. C'mon." Arthur offered you his hand. With reluctance, you removed it from your shoulder put it in his, and were pulled back onto your feet before you could even process it. And boy, were you not ready for it.

The world began spinning as if you were on some kind of makeshift carrousel, your head going fuzzy with warmth and nausea.

Like some kind of newborn animal, you stumbled forward, having to brace a hand against his chest to stabilize yourself and not fall right into his arms. Damnit.

He tensed under your palm, but didn't pull away nor come any closer. Just provided you with the needed stability, which you were more than thankful for.

A few seconds passed, in which you didn't even get to worry about the awkwardness of the situation, simply because you hadn't even managed to gather yourself, and were simultaneously rushing to put a diagnosis as to why exactly the nausea had kicked in so suddenly. Had you hit your head when you fell? Somehow caused the wound to rip open again and lost blood?

The rumble in Arthur's chest stemming from an awkward cough snapped you out of your thoughts. You took a quick, cautionary half-step backwards, away from him. "Shit, sorry."

" 'S alright, I..." Arthur shook his head, letting out a dragged exhale. Something about the way he turned away from you, wading through the snow, sharply and quickly, made it look as if he was scolding someone, and for a second you wondered if that person was himself. "I'll do somethin' about the horse." Arthur stopped and glanced at you over his shoulder. "Can you try settin' up a campfire while I do that? Break off a few branches, I— here." He dug through his satchel and threw a matchbox at you, which you clumsily caught.

With a damaged pride and equally damaged shoulder, you nodded, in spite of the fact that he wasn't able to see it, and made your way to some nearby trees to gather the needed firewood.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Absentmindedly, you dipped a thicker branch you'd found into the flickering flames, watching them as they slowly but surely grew. Lobo had fallen asleep at your feet. After bringing Arthur's horse next to yours and closer to the campfire, you'd discovered a percolator in his saddlebags and decided to prepare some coffee. From time to time, you peeked at Arthur, who, bless him, continued to showed just how tenacious he was. He'd been bucked off at least three times so far, and was climbing onto the mare's back for a fourth, but equally fruitless ride, it seemed.

"Come on, now, don't be like that—!" Arthur yanked back the horse's reins when it began writhing under him. It neighed, jumping a bit, but finally, took a step backwards, violent moves destined to shake the rider off slowly mellowing down to a reluctant walk. "Good. That's it." Came Arthur's prompt praise, garnished with a pat on the neck.

The horse shook, perhaps in a last attempt at disobedience, but finally gave in, and followed his commands.

Arthur wasn't frugal with his praise every time the animal listened, and before you even knew it, you found yourself smiling fondly at the scene before you. He guided the mare towards you, feeding it an apple as encouragement when it complied almost immediately. 

A few meters away, he stopped it slowly, and got off its back, taking it by the reins to guide it to his horse, and tied the makeshift reins to his steed's saddle.

There was a barely audible sigh after he had done so, and when he began making his way towards you. His expression lit up when he caught sight of the coffee, which made you grin.

"Fourth time's a charm." You said with chuckle when he dropped down on the blanket you'd set up next to the fire. Arthur tilted his head at the comment, a grin taking over his expression.

"You kept count?" He asked with a hint of surprise in his voice while he reached for the percolator and poured himself a cup.

"It doesn't take a genius to count to four."

He took a sip, closing his eyes as if to savor the taste, then briefly licked his lips. "Marston's gonna be real happy to hear that." He said that more to himself than to you, but when he noticed your curious expression, he explained nonetheless. "A friend. The same one that got mauled by wolves."

Marston? Where had you heard that name before?

It sounded oddly familiar, yet you couldn't put your finger on it. Marston, Marston, Marston. You continued repeating it in your mind, struggling to figure out what first name could possibly fit with it. Something with J, you were sure of it. Joe Marston? Jim? John?

"Coffee's good, by the way." Arthur spoke up, which made you snap out of your thoughts.

"Ah, figured you might like it after, well..." You nodded at the Arabian. "All of that. Is your back okay?"

He nodded absentmindedly, still focused on his beverage. "How 'bout your shoulder?"

"Better."

"Good." Arthur finished the cup of coffee, throwing back the last bit of liquid. Languidly, he got up, rolling his shoulders and causing his joints to crack. "Reckon I should set up the tent. You joinin' me or sleepin' under the stars?"

"Joining." You said and got up, following him to the horses, getting your own supplies with the same intentions as him in mind. The both of you worked silently, but you didn't mind, for some reason. Instead, your mind wandered off to where your thoughts left off—and then it hit you. John Marston. On a bounty poster, in big, black, bold letters.


	10. Chapter 10

So this was Arthur Morgan.

Or was he, though?

There was no way of knowing for sure, not without looking at the poster. And with him practically two meters away from you, just digging through your satchel to pull out a bounty poster that could potentially have his face on it did not seem like the brightest idea.  
A part of you spurred you on to act already, to wait for him to fall asleep and then tie him up and drag him to the nearest town, but the other screamed that a man like this could never do the things Arthur Morgan had done. So why do such horrible things to a man that had not only saved you, but seemed genuinely kind? Especially if you weren't certain of his true identity.

The whisper-like sound of pencil scribbling on paper coaxed you out of your thoughts. When your eyes followed the source and landed on Arthur, you felt tempted to believe you were hallucinating or just seeing things in the shadow of his tent. He lay on his stomach in the makeshift shelter across from yours, a small, leather-bound notebook clutched in his left hand, pencil in the other. The long, curved lines he traced on paper confirmed that he most certainly wasn't writing anything, but actually...drawing? You blinked again, your mind still unwilling to accept that yes, the man you suspected of being a coldblooded murderer, was, in fact, scribbling away in what seemed to be some kind of journal.

This couldn't possibly be Arthur Morgan.

Feeling watched, he had the impulse to glance back at you over the brim of his hat briefly before setting the journal aside and cocking a brow at you. A questioning hum was the placeholder for what you guessed was meant to be a dry, simple 'What is it?'

Flustered to have been caught staring, you looked down at your hands, starting to twiddle with your thumbs. "I was just...wondering what you were doing."

"Nothin'." He answered plainly, reaching to store it away his satchel.

"Didn't look like nothing to me." You insisted and crawled out of your tent, towards his. "Were you drawing something?"

Arthur stopped, drumming his fingers against the leather-bound cover, hesitating for a second. "I guess you could...say that."

"Can I see?"

Taken aback by your straightforwardness, he answered quite reluctantly, opening the journal slowly. "...sure." 

You ducked your head to fit in his tent, then sat down cross-leggedly beside him, left thigh lightly grazing his side when you leaned over him to catch a better glimpse of the notebook he was flipping through. Arthur tensed, but said nothing, and continued looking for the page he had been working on, passing other scribbles and paragraphs of writing before you had the chance to get a proper look at them. 

He slowed, turning over a page that contained a drawing of some kind of fluffy animal, a dog, maybe, and stopped at the most recent one. A rough, but vivid, dynamic sketch of the white Arabian you'd caught today, in a sideway view, captured in all its glory while it galloped through the snow, mane fluttering in the wind.

You were awe-struck, wordless, amazed. The love and care put into it, every muscle and vein and tendon and detail, in spite of it being nothing more than a draft—

Not knowing what to expect from your lack of words, Arthur spoke up with an awkward cough, moving to close the journal shut. "Well, it ain't nothin' too impressive, just—"

You put one hand over his in an attempt to stop him. Gingerly, you dipped your fingers between the pages to open them once more. Unaware of the closeness and captured by the drawing's minimalistic but enticing nature, you leaned towards his frame to have a better look at it, which was enough for your shoulders to touch. "It's amazing, Arthur. Really. It's the Arabian, isn't it?"

He swallowed thickly and then nodded, which you deemed sufficient for an answer.

"You got all the details right, too. It looks...natural, if that makes sense? Almost like a picture." You clarified, letting your fingertips drift over the page, as if to make sure that it was, in fact, a drawing. 'Blizzard' was written in the lower left hand corner in cursive, but struck through with a single line. Below it, there was a 'Sno', also cut through, and finally, plainly stated in the upper left hand corner: 'White Arabian'. Had he tried coming up with names for it?

Arthur closed the journal shut before you had the chance to inspect it any further. "I wouldn't go so far as to sayin' that. 'S just a terrible sketch, that's all."

"If that's horrible then I'll be more than thrilled to see your good sketches." You joked, watching as little clouds formed in front of his mouth and nose when he chuckled.

"If a wolf don't cut you down before that, sure." He answered on the same tone, which earned a both amused and frustrated huff from you. 

"Let's hope you'll be there to save the day once again, then."

"Don't get your hopes up, ruinin' folk's days is my favorite pastime."

"Well, I beg to differ, mister Callahan." You smiled at him brightly. "You've proved to be good company so far."

His reluctant, almost shy reaction to your compliment lead you to believe he was not used to receiving those, or just horrible at it. And yet, in spite of that, you found yourself grinning childishly and thinking it was adorable. What had gotten into you?

"I reckon you've been...quite entertaining as well." Arthur answered, tilting his head downwards to hide his face from you. A moment of silence followed, in which you almost wanted to apologize for flustering him, but were surprised when he raised his head enough to meet your gaze, expression garnished with a smirk. "Especially your exquisite horse tamin' techniques."

"Oh, shut up!" You growled playfully. "It's not like you didn't get bucked off either."

"It ain't my fault, I was just watchin' and learnin' from you, jus' like you said." Arthur answered with a defensive shrug. "Don't think there's much more you can teach me about wolf huntin', though."

"Mister Callahan!" You begun, faking infuriation and rising to your feet. You were trying to hold back a idiotic grin, and Arthur had obviously taken notice. "I'm going back to my tent if you keep tormenting me like this!"

"About time." He answered cheekily, pulling his hat down his forehead to cover his eyes before letting himself collapse on his back.

You shook your head in amusement and made your way back to your tent, which thankfully was not more than a few steps away. You crawled inside the cramped space, finding Lobo's curled up form inside it. You ran your fingers over the fur on his head, then laid down beside him, letting your eyes drift shut.

The sound of fabric shuffling came from Arthur's tent, followed by a reluctant: "I didn't actually offend ya, did I?"

"What?" You glanced over at him, discovering nothing but honesty on his expression. Did he actually mean it? Of course he hadn't hurt you. "No." You answered truthfully. "Who even takes offense that easily?"

"Just set foot in a saloon in Saint Denis and I guarantee you'll find a fella or two like that." 

"Well I'm not some fellow in a Saint Denis saloon." You clarified with a soft smile.

"I know, just...makin' sure, I guess. Would hate gettin' murdered in my sleep."

"Maybe don't save strangers from wolf attacks next time, then." 

Arthur pulled his hat back over his eyes. "Maybe."


	11. Chapter 11

You woke up to the sound of barks and chuckles, as well as the scent of grilled meat, so you were in absolutely no position to complain. 

In somewhat of an attempt to prolong the blissful moment, you didn't move, but only opened your eyes to look around. And that was something you most certainly did not regret.

Arthur was crouching next to the campfire he'd revitalized, the carcass of a rabbit beside him, which he was dutifully cutting into smaller pieces, and at the same time, defending from Lobo. Which, speaking from experience, was anything but an easy task.

"Look, if you keep botherin' me, we ain't gonna get nowhere with this. I thought we had a deal." Arthur spoke with obvious pseudo-sternness, huffing in amusement when Lobo sat down in front of him, head tilted to the side with puppy eyes. The man sighed, but could not withstand your dog's charm for much longer and cut off a small piece of the meat, which he dropped on the ground, in front of Lobo's feet. "That's the last one." He insisted, in spite of the pace at which Lobo was eating the given portion.

When the dog was done, he attempted once again using the puppy gaze. The little rascal.

"Look, I said I ain't—..." Arthur paused, staring down the dog for a few, tense seconds. Finally, he gave in, shoulders shaking from his amused laugh when he cut off another small bit. "Goddamnit." Arthur groaned, then fed it to the dog.

There was no way this man was a coldblooded criminal. Done, case closed, period.

No way in hell could a gunslinger be this gentle-mannered. Kind. It was impossible. 

Your conclusion was reinforced further when you glanced at him once again, and saw him leave the rest of the meat on a grill over the campfire. He turned towards Lobo, and crouched down to the dog's level. "You ain't touchin' that, you hear?"

Without expecting an answer, he rose back up and dug through his satchel, retrieving an apple, leaving the dog behind, who had, surprisingly, listened. He approached the Arabian carefully, cooing soothing words to it as he approached. A soft pat on the neck later, he began feeding the horse the apple, then broke out in a childish chuckle when his other steed came up to him and nibbled on the sleeve of his shirt. 

"Gettin' jealous, are we?" Arthur teased, then sliced the fruit in half with his knife to feed them both the same amount.

A gunslinger would not act like this. You'd seen all possible kinds of outlaws, and Arthur Callahan could not be one of them, not even if he wanted to.

And that whole Marston thing?

Nothing but a coincidence, you told yourself. Besides, he hadn't even confirmed whether it really was a man named John Marston, and you were sure there had to be more than one person in the whole country that had that damned name.

It had to be a coincidence, it just had to.

Was that a conclusion, or a wish? 

You'd be damned if you knew.

"Hey!" A soft laugh interrupted your thoughts. Using Arthur's momentarily let down guard, the Arabian had snatched the hat from his head, trotting away with the headpiece tucked between its teeth. "I said give that back!" The man insisted, running after the animal, trying to take a hold of its reins or saddle. 

The horse neighed but showed no signs of slowing down, instead, it encircled your camp at an alert pace, just enough to keep Arthur running. 

"Stop, goddamnit!" In spite of his tone, it was quite obvious by the goofy grin on his face that he enjoyed the game of cat and mouse about as much as you enjoyed watching.

Regardless of that, you still decided to help the man out. You languidly stood up — which Arthur still hadn't noticed — and reached inside your satchel, retrieving some sugar cubes, then followed your action with a sharp whistle.

That was more than enough to pique the Arabian's attention. It disinterestedly let Arthur's hat drop and walked over to you, turning its focus to the treat you offered.

Meanwhile, he had picked up his hat and dusted it off while approaching you.

There was a certain reluctance in the way his eyes averted to his boots, as if he'd just been caught doing something he'd rather not have had anyone intrude on. "Mornin'."

"Good morning." You answered, your gaze still on the horse. The moment it had finished the sugar cubes, you gave it a pat on its forehead, then reached for the makeshift reins. Rope loosely clasped in your hand, you guided the Arabian past Arthur, to where the other horses had also been tied up.

The man followed, catching up with you. "You, uh..." He paused, maybe to recollect his thoughts or reform his words, then spoke up again. "When'd you wake up?"

He sounded almost...bashful? Why would he be?

Regardless, you decided to spare him the unnecessary embarrassment. "Just now, after it had stolen the hat from you. I'll admit it was...quite the interesting sight." 

After tying the reins around a nearby tree, you finally turned around to fully face him, shit-eating smirk on your expression.

"Ain't my fault the thing's a devil." He retorted, walking back towards the campfire beside you.

You nodded, unable to stop smiling. You had no idea as to why that was the case — maybe the slightly comical situation, or just Arthur himself. But you more than certainly didn't mind the change of mood from the dull, dark shitshow your life was a big percentage of the time, so you were in no position to complain. He seemed share your opinion.

With lightheartedness still fluttering against your chest, you crouched down beside the campfire, glancing at the rabbit meat that was already halfway cooked. 

"Breakfast smells quite lovely, by the way."

"Hoped so." He stated, as if preparing breakfast for a stranger was in engraved in every person's moral code, as if he wasn't showing much more kindness than you, or probably any stranger, for that matter, deserved. "Your dog did quite the good job at hinderin' me."

A sly smile settled on your features as you stabbed a piece of food with your hunting knife, then began nibbling on it. "I figured."


	12. Chapter 12

The morning had gone by before you knew it. You and Arthur had used the momentarily kind weather conditions to your advantage and packed up, then made your way back towards Valentine. 

You had unbuttoned your jacket since your surroundings were becoming increasingly warmer, still letting it hang loosely over your shoulders as you trailed behind Arthur. The muddy ground presented a bit of a nuisance for you and the horses, but a great joy for Lobo, who was covered in dirt up to his snout and circled around you and Arthur, barking and yowling with playful joy.

"Shouldn't be much longer 'till Valentine. Might even get there b'fore noon." Arthur commented with a fleeting glance over his shoulder. 

"Hope so." You answered, spurring on your horse just enough to catch up with the Arabian, which was tied to Arthur's steed. You reached out to pet its mane, but refrained when you noticed it had become uneasy from the proximity with your steed. "How much do you think we'll get for it? A few hundred maybe?" You asked with a nod at the white mare.

"I thought you was the, uh...how'd you call it? Horse expert, was it?" Arthur laughed through his nose.

"Doesn't mean I can't ask for second opinions." You shot back and propped one hand on your hip.

He smirked at your mannerisms but obliged to the question with a thoughtful frown. "In that case...yeah. About a few hunfred, I reckon. But since we ain't got no papers for it...well, I ain't so sure."

You nodded absentmindedly and examined the white Arabian with a critical, careful gaze, as if you'd somehow be enlightened with a price if you stared at it long enough. That, however, was not the case, since your mind had instead conjured up the mental image of Arthur's drawing. 

"Did you think of any names for it?" You asked, which, judging by the sudden (though barely visible) tension in his shoulders, had caught him off-guard. 

"It's a 'she'." Arthur corrected, then slowed down his steed by a fraction. "But no. There ain't much use in namin' if we're sellin' her. Why?"

"No reason." You shrugged nonchalantly, trying to seem unbothered by his focused gaze, as if he could see right through you. "Just...wondering."

A grunt and a nod were the only answer you had received. To your dismay, the rest of the ride to Valentine was silent, though you couldn't pinpoint why exactly the verbal idleness had irked you so much.

After you and Arthur had hitched up your steeds on a post near the stable, he had taken the white Arabian by the reins. You, on the other hand, feeling as if you were somehow...intruding, had begun looking through the saddlebags for a brush.

"You comin' or not?" He called, and you looked up in slight surprise, but didn't comment, and instead complied.

Mud splattered over your boots as you jogged to catch up with Arthur, then entered the stable alongside with him. The Arabian neighed, which you guessed was because of the constricting feeling the stable had to it. Almost by reflex, you gave its — her — neck a reassuring pat. The gesture was observed with a soft smile from Arthur, which he luckily managed to hide before you could take notice of it.

"Mornin', mister. Miss." The stablehand trotted in and greeted with a nod at Arthur, then you. "Quite the fine horse you got there."

"Why, thank you. We're actually looking to sell." You chimed in with a smile that you were hoping would win him over. "If you'd be interested in owning, exactly like you stated, such a fine horse." 

"You got papers?"

"Surely its perfect condition should be proof enough of its quality. If you're still reluctant, my—" You glanced at Arthur, unsure of what exactly he was. Acquaintance? Savior? Helper? A sales partner of sorts?  "My friend here would be more than happy to show you."

"I'm sorry ma'am, but business is business. If there ain't papers, the best I can give you is one hundred."

"Two hundred." You insisted.

"I ain't goin above one." 

"It's an Arabian! You sell these for one thousand!" You retorted.

"The ones that ain't of dubious origin, yes." 

"A hundred and fifty."

"I ain't goin' above a hundred ma'am, and even that's generous."

You sighed in annoyance, tapping your foot against the dusty floor. Goddamn this fool of a stablehand. If it weren't for the laws of this country, you—

"Thank you for your time, then." Arthur chimed in, tugging both you and the horse away, out of the stable. Annoyed and disappointed, you still followed with heavy, stomped steps.

What was supposed to be a 5000 dollar trip to catch a wanted outlaw had turned into being a damsel in distress, which had then turned into a horse hunt and finally, into a fruitless incursion to a filthy town.

Weren't you just a lucky one.

"Jesus, you look like you could run up to that damn fellow right now and slit his throat." Arthur joked, though you were sure there was some truth behind the presumably friendly banter.

"I would if it weren't for the laws of this country—" You began, but then cut yourself off with a sigh. 

He had taken notice and let an amused huff slip as he tied the Arabian back to his horse's saddle. "As much as I'd like to agree, sheriff's office is right across the road. So maybe that ain't the brightest idea."

You nodded your head absentmindedly, then walked over to the hitching post, leaning against it as you thought. "Yeah. Damn."

Arthur joined you in that position, albeit reluctantly and without leaning his entire weight against the wooden structure. "There oughta be a horse fence in Rhodes, if I remember that right. Though I can't say for sure if we'll get a much bigger sum there either."

You glanced at your own horse, starting to think. You were satisfied with it, you supposed. It was fast enough, enduring enough, and wether you liked to admit it or not, you'd grown...fond of it. If you or Arthur keeping the Arabian would be considered an option, you'd gladly let him have it. It's not like you could use a race horse to its full extent anyways.

And you did kind of owe him for saving your life.

"Tell you what, you can keep it." You suddenly said, rising to your feet. Arthur followed, confusion engraved in his frown. 

"The horse?" He asked in confusion. "But you caught it—"

"And you saved my life." You answered and trotted over to the horses. "And you were the one that managed to break it. So it's only fair that—"

"No, it ain't fair." He insisted, catching up with you, and positioning himself between you and your steed. The look of determination on his face was almost, dare you say, endearing? "I insist."

You chuckled and cocked a brow. "Insist on what?"

"Let's say I'll get a hundred and fifty for it at the fence in Rhodes."

You tilted your head. "Sure, with a bit of luck, but what—" You paused when he reached inside his satchel and retrieved what you realized was his wallet. 

"That's gon' leave you with seventy-five." Absentmindedly, he began counting a few bills almost expertly, then fished them out of the billfold and handed them to you. "Here."

"Come on now, don't be silly." You shook your head. "You don't even know for sure wether you're actually gonna get that much for—"

"I ain't bein' silly, I'm bein' fair, now take the money." He insisted, pressing the bills into your hand when you still refused. "For being my wolf bait, me accidentally stealin' your dog, and the horse."

"But you saved my life." 

"One more word about savin' your life and I'll make you wish that wolf had killed you, now take the goddamn money."

You let out a tired sigh, which slowly morphed into an amused one. "Christ, alright." You put the 75 dollars in your satchel. "This is very kind of you, Arthur."

"I ain't anythin' of the sort." Satisfied with the fact hat you'd accepted the money, he took a step away, towards his steed, all while waving his hand dismissively. "Now scat. I got a horse to sell." He mounted the animal, then tipped his hat.

What a strange man, especially for someone you'd met in the middle of nowhere.

"Best of luck to you." You said with a grin. 

"Likewise." Taking that as a way to dismiss him, Arthur gave his horse the spurs, making it trot away. Seeing the white Arabian follow with graceful movements reminded you of one last detail you'd almost forgotten about.

"Hey, Arthur?" You piped up before he was out earshot. He tugged the reins and glanced at you over his shoulder. 

"Yeah?"

"Blizzard's a pretty nice name, I think."

That was enough to put a bashful smile on his face as he rode away.


	13. Chapter 13

After Arthur had left, you'd treated yourself to a bottle of beer from the saloon, then sat on a bench in the Valentine train station. The idleness was much welcome after the last few days' events. Watching the people and trains pass you by in a blur of hasty movements and words did wonders on your mind and soul. Lobo had laid down at your feet, blinking slowly as he bathed the afternoon sun.

Smiling against the rim of your bottle of beer, you traced your fingertips over the edges of the folded dollar bills. Sure, they weren't five thousand. But it was more than nothing. And you could finally get your aunt some more of the Opium she needed for her Lupus.

You watched a train as it passed by the station in Valentine, then took one last swig from the beer bottle before you disposed of it. Getting on your way was a wise idea, though you were in no hurry, seeing as your aunt's humble farm was near Emerald ranch, which was, simply put, a stone's throw away from your current location.

Lobo, having taken notice of the slight shift the moment you'd just considered leaving, immediately jumped up to his feet. 

You chuckled at the dog's enthusiasm, wondering, for a moment, where it was all coming from, and silently wishing you could have some for yourself as too. "Well, then, since I've already made you wake up, we might as well leave." 

Lobo approved of your words with an energetic wag of his tail.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You had stopped by the doctor's to get some Opium, then rode off, back home. While on the way, your thoughts drifted back to the peculiar encounter you'd just had. 

Arthur, well...something about him just refused to let your mind think of anything else. There surely were an abundance of layers to that man's persona, and while you weren't even sure if you should even dare hoping to meet him again, part of you wished to uncover it all. The mix of openness, warmth and a strange kind of goodness, combined with the secrecy he upheld was, what you supposed, made him alluring. Perhaps it all alluded to some kind of mystery or puzzle even.

Who was he really? Where had he come from? What had he seen?

That journal of his contained at least a good chunk of the answers to your questions, you supposed. But hoping was pointless. Meeting him again in the big, incalculable mess your country was suddenly seemed all the more unlikely. And yet a part of you still wanted to hope.

An enthusiastic bark brought you back, however left you with little to no time to process the fact that Lobo had practically zoomed past you.

A quick glance ahead confirmed why: You were just fifty meters away from your front porch, and Lobo, being the little rascal that he was, had decided it was a good opportunity to start terrorizing the hens quietly wandering about nearby.

"No! Bad boy, leave the chickens alone!" You shouted and gave your horse the spurs to catch up with him. "For Chrissakes! Lobo!" 

Chaotic, panicked clucking formed a cacophonous symphony with Lobo's enthusiastic barks.

There was no point in hoping to make it on time, and you had slowly but surely started to come to terms with the fact that you were going to have chicken soup for the next week or so.

That was, until the front door of the humble ranch creaked open, and silence ensued. You didn't have to glance twice to recognize the frame of your aunt, who looked even more worn out than how you'd left her. She whistled once, which, bringing an odd kind of comfort to you, sounded just the way it used to when she had been in perfect health conditions: shrill, loud and stern.

Lobo immediately plopped down to sit on the ground, look of guilt in his eyes, very much recognizable from roughly 10 meters away. You'd reached the front yard within less than a few seconds as well, smiling softly when you dismounted and walked past Lobo.

"(Y/n)." Your aunt said, though it sounded like a statement, or a reassurance to herself.

You simply gestured at yourself with a goofy smile. "Surprise, surprise, I'm still in one piece."

"That you are." She grinned, tiredly, though just as smugly as you'd known her, ushering you inside. "Unfortunately."

"Hey!" You retorted, elbowing her in the side, though with much more care and gentleness than before. Before she'd been diagnosed with Lupus.

The rash on her cheeks and nose had gotten significantly worse and much more saturated, which unsettled you further.

"I'm not made of glass, dear." She retorted, having taken notice your expression. "Now get that dog in here too, before he gets any closer to my chickens."

You nodded and whistled for Lobo, who sprinted inside the house, and wasted no time in asking your aunt for affection. She gave his head a little scratch, but mainly focused on forcing you to sit down at the table and fetching you some stew simultaneously.

"How are..." You began, taking the spoon in your hand, hesitating for a second. You stared at the food set in front of you, trying to gather your scattered thoughts and form them into sentences. "How are your joints? And the pains you kept tell—"

"Don't you worry about me. Now shut up and eat up." She ordered, back turned towards you as she looked through her supplies to retrieve some scraps of meat, which she served to your dog.

Your aunt slid into her seat across the table from you, waiting for you to swallow some of the stew before she chimed in.

"Now, did you catch that bastard you were going on about?"

"Would've returned in a golden chariot if I had." You answered, hiding your smug little smile by gulping down more stew. You licked the last residues of food off your lips, then continued. "But I did get some money."

"You caught the bastard's cousin instead or something?"

"No. Don't think he has cousins anyways." You clarified. "I, um...met a nice fellow by the Cotorra springs, who told me about a white Arabian he'd seen in Ambarino. I helped him catch it, and we split the profit."

She chuckled, picking up your plate and placing it in a washbasin. "So you really have retorted back to selling horses, haven't you? Must've gotten a bit desperate."

"Shut up!" You said between giggles. "I made good money. Seventy-five dollars."

"Whoever bought it was a fool, that's for sure."

Arthur, who had insisted on you taking the money flashed before your eyes. "Not a fool." You corrected. "Maybe just...kind."

Your aunt huffed in amusement. "She's got a crush on a stablehand, and a stupid one too. Ain't that dandy."

"Aunt Cathy!"

"I'm just telling the truth, darling. It's a dog eat dog world—" She glanced sideways at Lobo, who was licking off the last bits of meat from his bowl. "Well, not literally, but you get me. Find yourself someone with some damn brains, darling, unless you're not sure you're better off on your own."

She stood up, walking away, something she had the tendency to do after you would start getting worried about her. You guessed it was her own kind of defense mechanism.

"But I have you, why would I—"

She made her way over to her rocking chair, tiredly letting herself crash on it. "I'm not gonna be around for much longer, and you know it." The nonchalance whenever she talked about the inevitable fact that her life was most likely going to be cut short wasn't something new, yet never failed to make your stomach flip. "Now, I'm not saying don't fall for stablehands, but maybe find a richer one. As long as it's not an outlaw, idiot, or a criminal, and he treats you alright, you've got my blessing, darling."

You opened your mouth to say — well, you didn't exactly know what. Though you were spared from the embarrassment of standing in the middle of the kitchen slack-jawed when your aunt clicked her tongue and smiled softly. 

"Now go get some rest, darling, you need it."

Taking that as a dismissal, you trotted into your cramped bedroom, kicking off your boots and flopping onto the mattress. Just when you were about to set your satchel on your nightstand, a thought crossed your mind.

You hadn't checked for Arthur Morgan's bounty poster.

Heart suddenly pounding for a reason you couldn't and maybe didn't even want to know, you dug through your things, finding the folded piece of paper. You opened it, and just one glance at it confirmed:

You were an even bigger fool than you thought you ever could be.


	14. Chaoter 14

Sometimes you got credit for trying, but when it came to sleeping, just trying accounted to absolutely nothing.

You hadn't rested more than two hours the previous night, your thoughts racing with not only anger at yourself and your obliviousness, but at Arthur too. He'd purposefully acted like a gentleman to have you wrapped around his little finger, or so you assumed. He couldn't have known you were a bounty hunter, but, considering how sloppy you tended to get sometimes, you couldn't be sure. Who knew how he'd figured it out.

One thing you did know, however, was that you were neither planning on falling for his charms again, nor letting him slip through your fingers, not like that.

So you had made an impromptu decision at three AM that it was best you got on your way right away. Which would make it easier for aunt Cathy too, you supposed. So you'd made quick work of writing her a letter, then snuck out of the house. Through some miracle, you'd managed not to wake Lobo.

You took your horse, bought a train ticket, and set off to Rhodes.

By five in the morning, you'd reached it already. The southern city was slowly but surely waking as more and more citizens were starting to roam around and go about their business.

Finding the fence didn't prove to be a genius' task either. Two brothers were the ones running the business, though it was more one of them, called Clay, than the other, who was turned idiot or something of the sort.

You'd known Clay's type the moment you'd set eyes on him. Slippery, treacherous and sly. But still your best shot at tracking Arthur down.

"You lookin to—"

"Looking for someone, actually." You interrupted him, tone insistent and firm. He raised a brow, seeming suddenly all the more interested in you. "Grumpy, tall, blonde, broad shoulders, stubble. Came in with a white Arabian?"

A sly grin tugged at the bastard's lips. "Now why would I tell you anythin' about my clients?"

"Because I'll pay you." You reached inside your satchel, retrieving a 50 dollar bill from the cash Arthur had given you. You supposed it was dirty money, and tried to make yourself feel less bad about spending it on such things With an insistent look, you held out the money between your pointer and middle finger. Clay practically ripped it out of your hands, coy expression never fading.

"Well, why didn't you say so?" He paused, seeming to think. If he was even capable of that, of course. "Came in with two horses, an English halfbred and the Arabian. Sold the halfbred and kept the beauty."

"And where'd he go?"

"Back to Rhodes, I reckon. Haven't seen him around since."

"Good."

"You're very much welcome." 

God, how your hands were itching to punch that grin off his face.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You'd checked the saloon, the hotel, the general store, and even the gunsmith. Your last resort was the train station, where you stumbled across a strange man who turned out to be quite useful nonetheless. You'd described Arthur to him, and after a while of mind-searching, he confirmed that the man you were looking for had taken the train to Saint Denis not more than a few hours ago.

Your heart skipped a beat at the thought of diving headfirst into civilization and urban surroundings. You failed to tell if it was out of fear or excitement.

Yet you didn't hesitate longer than a second to push it all away and get yourself a ticket.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You had to admit the city streets brimming with people, one more pompously dressed than the other, or more strange were borderline terrifying. There was something going on behind every corner: pocket thieves, street musicians, salesmen, protesters, beggars, businessmen and whores. It all seemed like some kind of weird fever dream in which your brain had thought of every single archetype of person existent and had mashed them all together, crammed into one single hellish city.

And yet you found yourself allured, curious. If it hadn't been for Arthur, you'd started exploring everything without a second thought, so maybe it was for the best you had come with a purpose.

Considering the city's overwhelming size, it took you a little above two hours to check most of the important shops and a small saloon—to no avail. Your last, but also best option was...the biggest saloon in the entirety of Saint Denis.

The Arabian hitched near it was the only confirmation you needed. Arthur had to he close.

Standing in front of the saloon's immense doors did not feel the way you'd thought it would. There was no trace of the intimidation you'd expected, similar to when one would face a huge beast, but instead, you felt welcomed. So you pushed open the doors and stepped inside.

The saloon was bustling with men and women, some playing poker, others eating, chatting, laughing, joking, drinking by the bar. Just like a familiar, broad-shouldered silhouette leaning against the counter, idly sipping on whiskey.

You'd found him.

Arthur.

In spite of the gazes resting on you and the whispered cusses, you quickly pushed through the masses of people, eyes trained on him as if he'd vanish if you looked away even for a second.

But he didn't. When you reached the bar, Arthur Morgan, that sly, clever bastard was still very much there, and still very much staring into his drained glass, ignoring his surroundings.

Just then did you realize how stupid of you it was to approach him like this, in the middle of not only a packed saloon, but also a saloon in the middle of a huge city. You couldn't exactly knock him out over the counter right then and there and then tie him to a horse and gallop off into the sunset.

So you decided to do the only logical thing one would come up with, given your situation. Which was trying to get the outlaw as drunk as humanly possible.

You cautiously took a step closer, calling out his name in pseudo-disbelief. "Arthur?"

Disturbed in his thoughts, he frowned at first, perhaps in disbelief at the fact that the call was directed at him. When he finally decided to look around to assure himself and his gaze landed on you, his frame tensed, confusion in his eyes. Before he spoke a word, his expression suddenly morphed into something you could not recognize nor categorize. Aside from the fact that it seemed...halfway positive? If it weren't for his hat, you could've sworn his eyes smiled from his cheeks.

"Miss (l/n)." He tipped his hat as a garnish to his greeting. "The wolf hugger hersef." He said with friendly mockery, then nodded for you to come stand beside him.

Which you did.

"And the horse expert too, mind you." You answered on the same tone, gesturing for the bartender to refill his drink and get you one for yourself. You were playing your part of still being his friend far too well, and a side of you screamed that there was nothing even remotely fake about the way you treated him. But there was. You knew who, or more precisely what he was, you knew about the things he'd done. No matter how hard you'd have wanted it to be a lie, Arthur Morgan, the outlaw, the killer, the cold-blooded robber had not only saved your life, but befriended you. And you'd done so too.

"Of course, how could I forget." He grinned, then reached to pay for his order. You wrapped your fingers around his wrist, fast as lightning, then smiled warmly at him.

"Drinks're on me tonight, cowboy."


	15. Chapter 15

Arthur Morgan certainly had a knack for getting drunk, you had to give him that. The downside? He also had the necessary experience to know that being the only drunk was not to his advantage.

The entire evening had been a back-and forth of beer bottles and shots of whiskey, which, admittedly, you started, but he had the tenacity to continue. You'd bought each-other drinks until you'd lost count and had ultimately ended up leaning against the counter to avoid collapsing and giggling like two morons.

"So lemme get this straight..." A giggle interrupted your sentence, which earned a chuckle from Arthur, and a stern look from you as you jabbed your finger against his chest to stop him from laughing. This was a serious matter. "You took the train all the way to Saint Denis. Just to sell a damn wolf pelt."

Arthur tossed back the remains of his shot, then simply nodded.

"You're shitting me."

"I got good money for it."

"You're shitting me."

"I ain't."

"You traveled all this way for a wolf pelt." It was more of a dry statement than a question.

"Well you can't just walk into the damn general store and sell it!"

"So you just—"

"Yes!" Arthur interrupted you, then called for another shot, gesturing at both his and your glasses.

Silence settled between the two of you as your drinks were being refilled. The lack of dialogue hadn't gone by unnoticed. A prostitute (or what you assumed was one), had used it to saunter over to Arthur's side and lay a hand on his arm tentatively. The woman was the epitome of beauty: pearly blue eyes, slim face, long, dark blonde hair and perhaps the most innocent, winning smile you'd ever set eyes on.

"You lookin' for some fun tonight, big boy?"

You had no idea why exactly her presence made your stomach churn, but you knew you wanted her gone.

Arthur politely shook his head and moved away from her, not enough to seem repulsed, but enough to dismiss her. "No thank you." He gestured towards you sloppily, small smile on his face. "Got just 'bout enough company on my hands."

The girl walked away without another word.

In spite of the relief rushing through your slowed, drunken thoughts, you still slapped his shoulder playfully, to which he grinned like a fool. 

"'M sorry, I figured you'd rather I don't abandon you for a prostitute." He raised his hands in mock surrender. 

"Aren't you a gentleman."

"I reckon I gotta be, since the ladies and horse experts love me so much." He grinned wolfishly at you, yet was quick to avert his attention towards his refilled glass the moment he'd received it.

"You wish." You shot back, then snatched his glass from him the moment he'd set it down, taking a sip as well. Arthur watched you with a mix of surprise and smugness.

"Guess that's true."

The boldness of your inebriated state demolished all verbal restraints you had. Which, to be fair, weren't all that numerous anyways. "What, you're really gonna tell me no woman ever fell for..." You sloppily pointed at him. "this?" 

"We both know that's just bullshit you're spittin' out there."

"I'm a woman." You punctuated your sentence by tapping your index against the counter. "I know what the hell I'm talking about."

"You're also a drunk woman." Arthur corrected. "So you're talkin' shit."

"And you're a drunk man, you're in no position to argue." That silenced him for a good few seconds, which you used to shift a bit closer and lower your voice to a whisper, as if you'd be telling him some kind of well-kept secret. The thought of capturing the outlaw was long gone, replaced by the feeble urge of a drunken mind: To get in trouble. "Tell you what. I bet you...I bet you all the money I still have on me that you can convince any woman from this bar to share a room with you for the night. Without paying her."

Arthur leaned against the counter further as he took another sip. "I ain't doin' that." 

"Not even for...let's see...uh..." You dug your hand into your satchel almost elbow-deep, retrieving a few crumbled up bills. "...this much?"

"That's twenty dollars."

"Exactly."

Arthur looked up at the ceiling, avoiding your gaze for a few seconds before rolling back his shoulders and pursing his lips into a thin line.

Without another word, he pushed himself away from the counter, and made a beeline for the closest young woman, who was standing alone by the piano, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed.

Arthur, who had sloppily halted in front of her, scratched the nape of his neck awkwardly before starting, what you guessed, was a fairly weak attempt at chatting her up.

She quickly took note of the fact that he was drunk, but engaged in a small conversation nonetheless. A small giggle tugged at her lips when Arthur had said something sloppily amusing, which caused you to smile as well.

That was, until the piano music stopped brusquely, and the pianist stood up quickly enough for his chair to tip over. Arthur was met with a punch against the back of his head a second later, which caused his hat to fall off.

"That's my wife, you goddamn pig!" The pianist shouted, rage in his voice. You covered your mouth with your hand to refrain from laughing out loud. Christ, what had you gotten the poor man into?

Arthur braced himself against the wall. The entire saloon was overtaken by silence, and all eyes were on him. The outlaw turned around and put his palms up in submission. "Alright, friend, didn't know she was—"

That was, in the livid pianist's opinion, not enough of an apology. So he threw another punch at Arthur's face, which you watched with a wince. For some reason, it had stopped being amusing, and you'd even started feeling...worried? 

"I ain't your friend." The pianist growled, moving to attack Arthur once again. The outlaw was quicker, which you could only guess was the result of years of experience with fistfights, and caught the man's fist in his hand.

"Alright, friend, I don't wanna hurt you, but you ain't makin' it easy."

Something inside your stomach flipped at the sudden change in the pitch of his voice, but you knew better than to just sit and watch. You hurried to squeeze your frame in-between the two men, using your arms to keep them away from both each-other and yourself.

"I apologize on the behalf...um...because of my friend. I suggested he go talk to your wife, so if anyone's deserving of punches, that's... well, it's me." Was your weak attempt at diffusing the conflict, which, surprisingly however, worked.

The pianist scoffed, mumbling something among the lins of 'drunken idiots', then walked away.

The tension you hadn't noticed had formed in your body faded, something that was reciprocated by Arthur, who had also breathed a sigh of relief. Disinterested, the people in the saloon were resuming their previous activities. You lowered your hands, then turned around to face Arthur. His jaw was showing signs of a bruise, but his smile was unfaltering.

"Well." He reached down to pick his hat up from the floor and put it back on his head. "There go my hopes of gettin' into a bar fight."

"Sorry."

"It ain't—" He reached up to his face, touching his jaw with his index before wincing under his breath. "Ain't your fault."

"It kind of is, though."

"Nah, just goes to show I'm unlucky." He rolled back his shoulders. " 'specially when it comes to women."

"Come on, that's not true. Tell you what. I'll pay for a room for you." You didn't know exactly what part of his face, behavior, or words made that sentence leave your mouth with such ease. You blamed it on the alcohol. "That way you've also won my bet, and also have a place to stay for the night."

"Don't worry, miss (l/n), pity is the last thing I need."

"Good, because this isn't pity. This is me making it up to ya. C'mon."


	16. Chapter 16

Arthur had reluctantly followed you to the bartender, where you had asked and paid for a room. In spite of your still slightly inebriated state, the two of you had made your way to the assigned dormitory in orderly silence.

Disappointment seemed to be a foreign term when it came to the room you would be staying in. It looked effortlessly lavish, with a huge queen sized bed in the middle, decorated with shiny red duvets, a white velvet couch in the back of the room, just in front of the windows.

You flinched when the hiss of a match getting set on fire rang out behind you, and the room was flooded by warm, orange light. Arthur had lit his lantern and set it on the nightstand.

Good lord, if you'd tried denying the fact that he was dashingly handsome before, it was indisputable now. He was absolutely gorgeous, bathed in the low lamp light that caught on his sharp, rugged features, but especially in his blue-green irises, who were then of some yet undiscovered, impossibly warm aquamarine. As a whole, Arthur looked tired, but at the same time soft, especially with the bruise on his jaw then in full bloom of vivid indigo.

He grit his teeth, touching the tender injury with his fingers before his gaze slowly found yours, and he caught you staring.

"How's your jaw?" You asked, and suddenly the carpet in the middle of the room was the most intriguing thing in the world.

"The fella could punch for a pianist, I'll give him that." Arthur answered with a grunt. 

"I honestly thought he'd rather spare his hands from punching you, but I was wrong."

"He was a fool, alright." Arthur scoffed when you grasped the sleeve of his shirt and tugged him towards the bed. "I'd choose the piano over my ugly mug. Hell, I'd choose just about anythin' over it."

You frowned, but didn't look at him. Surely, he couldn't have meant that? Was it some kind of drunken joke you hadn't understood? 

A glance at his expression confirmed otherwise. Arthur had very much meant it.

That made a deep, dull ache settle in your chest. "You know you're not ugly, right?"

"N' you know that's the alcohol talkin'." He answered, easily freeing his arm from your loose grip, padding over towards the white velvet settee. "I'll take the couch."

"I ordered a room for two people, you know."

"Exactly. A bed 'n a couch."

You sighed, but at least had the sensibility to realize that bending Arthur's will required superhuman strength. Which you, especially considering your current state, were not going to muster.

"Let me have a look at that bruise first."

"'S just a damn scratch."

"A scratch I caused." You argued, then pointed at the invitingly plush mattress. "Now sit."

"I ain't your dog."

"Never said you were." Part of you told you to just let him be, the other told you to use the moment to your advantage and pull a gun on him or point a knife to his throat, or for god's sake, do something, and the other told you to insist, and that he deserved this at the very least. You decided for the latter, for unknown reasons. "Besides, I don't think it's against the law to let someone help you, for once, Arthur."

He frowned at your answer, clenching his jaw before rolling his shoulders back and nodding his head from side to side. 

He approached the bed, plopping down on the edge of the mattress, just a few meters in front of you. It felt both weird and kind of empowering to be the one to tower above him for once.

"Let me see if I can find any rags around." You explained, turning away from him. Arthur was quicker and caught your wrist easily, pressing a piece of cloth into your hand.

The white, worn material with bloodstains looked all too familiar. And reminded you of your own injury from a few days ago.

"Think that one should do." He spoke up when he noticed you staring at the piece of material with something similar to nostalgia or reminiscence in your eyes. Snapping out of it, you gave him a curt nod before making your way to the washbasin in a corner of the room, where you started washing the rag.

Splashing water was the only sound source inside your room, and suddenly, the voices outside it became all the more audible. There was a certain tension inside the space you had no idea how, or wether you could break.

Arthur had figured it out much sooner than you, though, it seemed. "I used to have a dog, too. Cooper was his name."

That was...one of the first things he'd openly admitted about his past.

"Why are you telling me this now?" You asked, looking at him over your shoulder with a little smile tugging on your lips. 

"Just noticed that mutt o' yours was missin'."

Oh. "Don't you have quite the exceptional observation skills."

"Been told so." Arthur answered, his watchful eyes trained on you when you turned around and folded the cloth while approaching him. "He alright? Lobo, I mean."

You couldn't hold back the warm smile anymore. And to think this man was an outlaw— No. You didn't want to think about it. Not for now. It was foolish, and utterly egoistical, but it felt like decades since you'd last had a meaningful encounter, or interaction, for that matter. Just for tonight, you decided to throw your plans of capturing Arthur Morgan out the window, and enjoy this. Him. His company.

"Yeah. He's just fine, don't worry. At home, probably terrorizing my aunt's chickens."

"Cooper was too mellow for anythin' other than goofing around. Pro'bly ain't ever even touched a fly." Arthur chuckled, gently so, lashes hooded over his eyes as he stared at the carpet, fiddling with his hands in his lap. "Guess that's why my father hated him. 'Cause he was less human than a dog."

You took a reluctant step closer to Arthur's form, gentle smile on your lips everlasting. "I've known just about enough bastards to fit that description."

"Myself included, I assume." Arthur said, smile on his face growing mocking, though not towards you, never towards you, but himself.

"Might come as a surprise, but no." You had to remind yourself to steady your hands when you were close enough to feel his knees bump against yours as you inspected his face. His breath was warm and racing when you eased two fingers under his chin and tilted it upwards, then to the side, to gain access to his bruise. Your fingers were practically itching to tun over the tendons of his neck, tense and stretched, and to caress them into relaxation. But you refrained, with what little self-control you still had, and focused on dabbing the cold, wet cloth onto his wound. "You're quite alright, mister Morgan."

He coughed awkwardly at the close proximity, then closed his eyes in what you assumed was an attempt at ignoring it. "I ain't whatever you think I am."

And how you wished that would be true.

But it didn't matter, you reminded yourself. Not for tonight.

"Well, enlighten me on what exactly you are." Your touches on his injury were ever so-demure, the cold providing the relief he very much needed from the slight ache. But his eyes were still glued on the ground. "Because to me, you seem...good. Kind, and humorous, too."

Arthur scoffed at that — the mocking, spiteful kind — but said nothing. Not even when you dropped the cloth on the mattress, not when you used the fingers positioned under his chin to tilt his head towards you. Not even when you leaned in slowly, when one half of you was screaming at you to stop and the other was urging you to go on already. Not even when your lips were so close to his you could feel his racing breath fan your cheeks.

Arthur never said a word, yet vocalized just enough when he cupped your jaw and put his thumb on your lower lip, a creating a barrier between the both of you. He expressed his thoughts in utmost clarity when he used that to ever carefully coax you away from his mouth, and yet, he still spoke after that, in the hopes of providing justification.

"You don't want this, trust me." He was still so close, so warm, breath tickling your lips as he whispered out the words. "I don't wanna make you regret this in the mornin'. Because you will."

You swallowed thickly, unsure of what to say or what to do. His hands drifted to your hips, and for a second, hope and warmth sparked within you, but quickly died when you realized he was moving you out of his lap — when had you even shifted to sit down on it? Arthur stood up along with you, the faintest blush on his cheeks as he padded over towards the white velvet couch, loyal to his previous promise.

"I'm...sorry." You whispered, stomach sinking when you realized just how stupid you'd been.

"'S alright." Arthur assured you, laying down his far too big frame across the couch. His legs dangled off one end, reaching just above the floor. He pulled his hat down to cover his eyes, as if to punctuate the end of tonight's activities.

You stood there, just beside the bed, for a few more seconds, staring at him like a fool that still hoped for...well, you didn't know what exactly. You bit your lip, took off your satchel and threw it beside the nightstand, hearing some objects scatter on the floor. At that moment, though, you couldn't be bothered to care, much less pick them up, and decided to leave it for tomorrow morning. Just like the cocktail of disappointment and embarrassment sitting in the pit of your stomach.


	17. Chapter 17

You'd never woken up to something quite as peaceful as distant, slow gramophone music and quiet, sleep-drunkened, faraway conversations.

Only the sounds of nature could hope to rival that, in your good opinion.

But that was a luxury the room — or, more precisely, the city you were in — couldn't quite afford. Saint Denis.

You stretched out your legs and nuzzled your face into the soft pillow, enjoying the smell of freshly washed sheets, combined with just the faintest smell of multiple kinds of alcohol.

Oh God. Last night. The half-assed bar fight. Your intimate, and not to mention extremely foolish moment with Arthur. Arthur. The money. Where was—

You sat up, kicking away the blanket in the process.

Arthur was gone. Nowhere to be seen. Not on the white couch he'd slept on, not in the corner of the room, nowhere else in that small, godforsaken space.

"Arthur?" You called out, but received silence for an answer. Shit.

He couldn't have gotten too far, right? It was only — you checked your pocket watch — 7 AM.

You jumped out of the bed, putting on your boots, simultaneously looking for your satchel. Where had you left the damn thing?

Right, of course, it had spilled some of its contents the night before, just after you had set it beside the nightstand. So that was where you checked.

It was missing. It felt like a punch to the gut, the realization that you'd been probably robbed of what little money you still had—

And then you found the satchel: on the hat stand. Neatly packed and closed. Just below it, on the coffee table, there was a sheet of paper, with coins tactically placed on each of its corners to avoid it slipping off the table under the influence of the soft breeze entering through an open window. You guessed it was a letter, perhaps, as you curiously approached, but quickly realized it was empty, aside from just one sentence written in the middle.

“ A gun to the head might be more efficient next time.

— A. M.”

Blood rushed to your head as you stared at the letters, the handwriting, and it clicked. Arthur had found out. He knew. He knew you were a bounty hunter — but how?

Holding your breath, you moved away the coins, realizing, to your surprise, that they were the exact amount the room had costed. The moment you flipped over the paper, it all made sense. Arthur's rugged features were printed on it, and in big, bold letters, the title announced: WANTED 5000$.

The bounty poster. Arthur's bounty poster.

It must've fallen out of your satchel that night, and the rest had been history.

You sat back down onto the mattress, propping your head against your hands as you stared at the poster. You wanted, really wanted to believe that all of this was a series of unfortunate events, but it wasn't. Ultimately, all of it came down to the fact that you'd acted like an absolute idiot, a buffoon, a child. You should've pointed a gun at him the moment you'd met.

But at the same time, you knew that if by some miracle, you'd be granted the chance to try it all again, you wouldn't change a thing.

And perhaps that was the detail that irked you the most.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

For a little while, you had decided to take a break from bounty hunting altogether, and try other, perhaps more nonconventional ways of making money. An idea had quickly come to mind, in spite of how much as you had doubted Arthur's more legal methods of making small amounts of profit, you had to admit that hunting could prove to be just a little more lucrative than selling wild horses. Not by a lot, but at the very least, you could get your aunt the needed amount of medicine she'd been prescribed. And learn to avoid incidents similar to the wolf one.

So, to soothe your pride, or maybe to inflate it (or perhaps both) you had decided to start big. A gigantic bear up in Grizzlies had caught your attention and promised to be especially profitable, bringing in a copious amount of dollars for its pelt.

You had to stifle a giggle at the memory of hiding in a tree, with your arms shaking as if they were made of falling autumn leaves, and your hands sweaty enough to look like you had dipped them in the nearest lake. Firing shot after shot the moment something gigantic and brown started running towards you, mentally praying to have hit something vital. You vividly remembered having hoped that bears, or at least this one, couldn't climb, especially not trees. You also remembered utter relief you had felt when the beast had collapsed just below the tree you were hiding on.

You had earned a good and honest sum of 60 dollars for its pelt, and while that had been more than enough for a little while, you were hoping to add a little more to your wallet on your current attempt at tracking down a legendary coyote.

This time, Lobo had joined you, and was enthusiastically running around the beautiful meadows of Lemoyne, exploring everything that moved and didn't move. His brownish fur was still dripping wet from an impromptu bath he had taken in Dewberry creek a few minutes ago, but that seemed to be the last point of interest on his mind.

You slowed down your horse in the slightest, starting to scout the area with your eyes. Nothing so far. You tied your steed to a tree, retrieved your rifle, mentally prepared yourself for the tedious hours of searching for clues that were going to follow.

Until Lobo barked, that was.

You turned your attention towards him, the naive hope that maybe he had stumbled across a clue to ease your hunting started forming in your head. You approached the animal quickly, realizing that he had indeed found something, perhaps some dung. Furrowing your brows, you crouched beside him—

The thundering of galloping horses. Not too far, but not exactly close either, accompanied by a conversation. Your head whipped around, trying to locate the source, which you had succeeded at: three riders.

Two of them were more than certainly unknown to you, but the one that closed the group — well, it was safe to say that you would recognize that gorgeous white horse, that slack posture and dark leather hat just about anywhere.

Arthur Morgan.


	18. Chapter 18

You never thought forgetting to do something as vital as breathing could potentially be an occurrence in normal circumstances, but there you were. Out of breath, staring at the three silhouettes riding off towards the Heartlands.

The fact that money wasn't the first thing that came to mind when you mechanically mounted your horse and begun trailing after them bothered you, maybe even caused something similar to happiness with a hint of self-criticism to well up in your chest. How peculiar.

Arthur Morgan was a sight you hadn't hoped to ever lay your eyes on again. Yet, at the same time, you had desperately wanted to. 

So without giving it a second thought, you gave your horse the spurs, following the three horse tracks the riders — and Arthur — had left behind.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Lobo had also realized right away that keeping quiet was something you required from him, and had mirrored the reluctant, faltering manner of your every move as you stopped in the cover provided by a forest to watch the three men ride up a hill. You made quick work of retrieving your binoculars and analyzing all three of them: there was Arthur, obviously, another blond man with shoulder length-hair, a mustache and a white hat, as well as a man with a face one could never forget, simply because of the sheer amount of bounty posters he'd been illustrated on: Dutch Van Der Linde.

They had a quick exchange — and suddenly, Arthur parted from the group, continuing his way towards the top of the hill while the others rode around the it, towards a valley of some sorts, when you ultimately lost sight of them. Arthur disappeared out of your field of vision not much later as well.

You waited for a few more minutes, at the very least, before saddling up once again. You hesitated for a second — trying to figure out whether you should follow the other two riders or Arthur. You weren't given the chance to ponder any further, your instincts alarming you of another presence nearby. You quickly returned in the cover of the bushes.

Lo and behold: five men, fully armed, sneaking up the hill. After Arthur, you could only guess. Something in your stomach flipped unpleasantly at the mental image of them overwhelming the outlaw, pointing a gun to his head—

You shook your head. Stupid fantasies were not going to help you, nor Arthur. But were you going to help Arthur?

The answer was yes. Admittedly after a few second thoughts, but it was affirmative nonetheless.

You dismounted, taking your rifle with you, and asked Lobo to stay. He did, even going as far as sitting down and looking at you with a solemn, promising look in his dark coffee-colored eyes. That was more on an answer than you could have hoped for.

By their looks, the sneaking men more than certainly promised trouble — every action, whispered word and silent laugh confirmed it time and time again. Their dark clothes, greasy hair, and from what you'd managed to make out from their whispered conversations (which wasn't all that much, aside from the Irish accent), made the assumption that these were O'Driscoll's men anything but far-fetched.

And that was when it clicked: The blood feud between the Van Der Linde gang and the O'Driscoll boys. These men had been sent out to catch Arthur. Kill him, maybe.

Unfortunately, that realization had kicked in far too late.

The five men were sprinting down the hill, one of them forcing the white Arabian to follow. Slung over its back, you realized the animal carried a passed out (and hopefully not dead) Arthur. The entire operation was completed before you could blink: they'd whistled for horses, tied the Arabian to one of them, then made their getaway to the east.

You hesitated. Should you go after them? For an outlaw? Was it all worth the hassle? Shouldn't you just forget about all of this and pick another, easier bounty?

On the other hand, however, cutting off the entire encounter with Arthur Morgan like this...it felt like starting an intriguing book, then losing it, or throwing it out in the mud. Especially given your current situation. You wanted to continue this, whatever it was. Help him. In a way, you felt like you were supposed to.

You owed Arthur saving his life in return. Maybe then you'd be even, and you could finally, hopefully be at peace. Both with him and yourself.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You had followed the O'Driscolls with utmost subtleness, keeping quite a distance between yourself and the group of people. You had also remarked with some horror that they just kept growing in number as the journey progressed. They hadn't taken notice of you yet, thankfully, but you had gone the long way to make sure of it: you would stop from time to time, wait for ten minutes or so before finding their tracks and following them. Lobo had proved to be especially useful for said task.

The bastards had ridden to Valentine, where they had split up. Lobo had went after the imprints leading away from the settlement, which led you to hope that your gut instinct was, at least for once right. Reason only reaffirmed your dog's decision. What were they going to do with Arthur in Valentine, anyways? Turn him in to the sheriff? The prison there was laughable at best. A well-placed explosion, shootout or charlatanry and his gang could easily break him out of there. No, they weren't taking him to Valentine. There was no good reason to.

So you followed Lobo, to a place north of Caliban's seat and south-west of Valentine, a small plateau of sorts, where you had quickly spotted a campfire in the inky darkness. A mere three silhouettes sat around it (a look through your binoculars only confirmed it), and if you squinted, there was a passed out form in the periphery of the makeshift camp.

At first you thought it to be a sleeping O'Driscoll, but the ingenuous idea of checking the horses — for the Arabian, more precisely —  came to mind, and ultimately confirmed the fact that the body may have very well belonged to Arthur.

If you were going to act, it would have to be now. Under the cover of darkness, when the men had lessened in number, and most importantly, when they would least expect it.


	19. Chapter 19

A silent approach never felt and probably never would feel like your style, but pickiness was a luxury you could not afford. Not when you were trying to save an outlaw from...a bunch of other outlaws.

You had retrieved a fair amount of throwing knives from your horse, and hoped to put those to use. You'd hitched your horse to a tree, made Lobo stay, and watched the plateau, waiting for the right time to strike. Approaching it proved to be mote difficult, since you lost sight of them when you reached the base of the hill. Making out the conversation between the O'Driscolls proved to be a fairly easy task.

"That has to be crap, it ain't worth the risk." One of them spoke up.

"Colm's got a sense about Van Der Linde. He can play him!" Another argued. "Once he realizes we got his man here, they'll all come right into the trap, mark my words. And then we can head off, free as birds."

So that was their plan. Use Arthur as bait to catch his entire gang, and turn them in to the law. Now that — that would surely be rewarded with a pretty paycheck. It was almost, dare you say, ingenious, especially considering all the rumors you'd heard about Colm O'Driscoll being a brainless lowlife.

"I hope so." Were the last words before the conversation died out. 

The next thing you registered, aside from the crackling of the campfire, were rustling leaves and steps. Dragged, but light, and almost unidentifiable if one didn't pay attention. Out of instinct, you darted into a more well-forested area, watching the top of the plateau. Your chest felt like it could practically burst with every single heartbeat and breath. If someone discovered you, that would be the end of your rescue mission.

A broad, barrel-chested, yet crouching silhouette appeared. You didn't have to look twice to know who it was. Arthur.

"He's escaping! Shoot him!" One of the other men shouted. 

"Relax! Relax, I got him." In the moonlight, you saw Arthur's expression melt into one of fear as he tried to drag himself away with what little energy he still had, but to no avail. A well placed shot later, he collapsed, and the other men easily caught up with him.

Your rifle, you needed your rifle—

Hands trembling and slick with sweat, you reached to the weapon strapped to your back.

"Did I kill ya?" One of the O'Driscolls shouted mockingly, looming above Arthur's frame.

"Oh, not yet." Arthur answered on the same tone, yet his voice was laced with pain, like he was stifling a scream. 

The three of them chuckled while they crowded around him. "Nah, of course not." One of them spoke up, loading his gun. "But I will."

You acted on impulse. Luckily, your impulse had been one of the best things to ever happen to you. A perfectly timed headshot later, the one that had threatened Arthur dropped to the ground like a felled tree.

"What the fuck—" Another shouted, but never managed to finish his sentence. Those were quite the intriguing last words, in your good opinion. 

The third one had been smarter, hooked his arm around Arthur's neck and dragged him up this feet to use him as a human shield. With the other hand, the O'Driscoll switched between pointing a gun at his surroundings, and Arthur's temple.

"Get out, wherever the hell ya are, or I'm shooting this damn bastard!" He shouted. Arthur pawed at the O'Driscoll's arm, trying to free himself from the man's grasp, but to no avail. "You got five seconds! Five! Four! Three! Two!"

Talk about a rescue mission going absolutely stellar. You bit your lip, slowly rising from your hiding spot.

"One—"

"Don't shoot, I'm here!" You shouted, slowly approaching the two men. The look on Arthur's face when he recognized you was a perfect blend of confusion, disbelief and surprise.

"Alright, you fuckin' wench. Drop that rifle right now. And kick it away. No funny business." 

You swallowed down the uneasy feeling in your gut and complied. Your rifle was sent flying into the bushes around the campfire.

"Good. Now, unless you want me to put a bullet in your friend, you're gonna put your hands above your head and get down on your knees, nice 'n slow."

You were in no position to disobey. Especially not with both Arthur's and your life at stake.

Wicked smile on his face, the O'Driscoll turned his attention to the outlaw, pressing the gun against his temple as he watched him struggle for air. "Now, who is this? One of them whores you keep around? Your wife? You reckon we could use her as bait too, Van Der Linde scum?"

"She's...worthless. Jus' a bounty...hunter." Arthur heaved as his grip on the man's arm began faltering. "Let her go."

"Okay, she's important, then. Got it." The O'Driscoll tapped the barrel of his gun against his chin, as if he were deep in thought. "Now, let's see, how do I make sure both you n' her don't misbeha-"

Arthur tried to use the momentary idleness of his enemy to his advantage and rammed his shoulder against the man's chin, however not quickly, nor strongly enough.

The O'Driscoll tightened his grip as a consequence , surprise and anger carved into his expression. "Why, thank you for the suggestion." Before you could blink, he removed the gun from Arthur's temple and fired a bullet into his shoulder.

A scream of anguish followed, and you had to grin your teeth to prevent yourself from bursting into tears right then and there. Shit, there was no way you were going to get Arthur, much less yourself out of this situation. This piece of O'Driscoll scum had the upper hand, and he fucking knew it!

The lowlife let go of Arthur, then easily stepped over his fallen frame, pistol still pointed at you while he approached.

He crouched down in front of you, slipping the barrel of his weapon under your chin, forcing you to look up at him. 

"I'm gonna have a lot of fun with you." The wicked smirk on his face was unfaltering. Your legs began trembling, and part of you even felt thankful for the kneeling position, mainly because that hid your fear to some extent. You avoided his gaze, staring at the greenery behind him. Something dark was moving through it, causing the branches and leaves to sway back and forth softly. A silent growl rang out. "Tie you up real nice, 'n then—"

He had no time to react when something dark and fluffy sprinted up to him, knocking him off his feet. The O'Driscoll's weapon was sent flying from the impact, landing somewhere nearby. You wanted to get up and look for it, but Arthur had beat you at that and picked it off the ground. Before you even knew it, he had rolled onto his side, aimed the gun at the O'Driscoll, and put a bullet through his forehead.

"Good shot." You breathed, running a hand through your hair. You glanced at Arthur, who was also heaving, muscles slackened as he lay on the ground.

"The hell are you doing here?" He instead asked, voice strained and almost lifeless.

The question of whom exactly your mysterious savior had been was answered when Lobo padded up to you, blood dripping from his snout. You had never wanted to give an animal more treats than in that exact moment, but you supposed that would have to be postponed for a little.

"Five thousand dollars can't..." — A tired huff interrupted Arthur's sentence — "possibly be worth that much to ya." The outlaw forced out the words through gritted teeth.

You wanted to laugh, but refrained. Jokes, and your reaction to them were the last thing you needed at that moment. Leave, you had to leave right then and there. "The rest of them are in Valentine." You paused and dragged yourself to your feet. "Won't be long 'till they get back. Can you stand?"

"Sure." Arthur answered, trying to straighten up himself as well, but ultimately failing. The outlaw grit his teeth and clutched his shoulder. He stared at his bloodied palm in disdain. "Shit."

You rushed to his side, putting your hand over his on the injury. It wasn't the worst you'd seen (or caused) but you sure as hell wouldn't have wanted to trade places with him. You hoped you could get him somewhere safe before he would bleed out. "It's okay, I'll help. Keep that pressure on the wound. Come on, Arthur." You hooked the other arm around your neck, struggling to hold up his weight as your dragged him towards the horses.

His steps were somewhat unstable at first, but slowly degraded into dragged, stuttered ones. He was slipping into unconsciousness, goddamnit.

"Hey! Hey, Arthur!" You lightly slapped his shoulder, and exhaled in relief when he squinted at you, eyes unfocused but struggling to stay awake.

The outlaw hummed in response.

"If you black out, I can't carry you." You explained when you reached the horse. "So don't you dare pass out on me, mister, because you're dooming us both."

He nodded silently as you guided him to lean against the white Arabian for support. You mounted the steed easily, then put your arm in his reach. Pulling him up to sit behind you was undoubtedly one of the most difficult things you'd done in a while, but you managed. Just about.

You gave the horse the spurs, called for Lobo to follow (not that he really needed the instruction), and whistled for your own steed. 

While you galloped away, you heard screaming and gunshots in the distance behind you. But you never dared looking. Not even when Arthur had finally lost consciousness and slumped against you, you never looked back.


	20. Chapter 20

By the time you had gotten to Emerald ranch, Arthur had almost fallen off the horse three times. To be completely honest, you weren't even sure when exactly you had arrived there, other than the fact that you were practically bathed in sweat from stress and fear. But you had made it. You had lost the O'Driscolls somewhere along the way, or at least hoped so.

The chirping of crickets all around you lulled you into a sense of security, of peace and calm. There was no way these O'Driscolls kept track of you. Not after you had galloped through a forest, and almost lost Lobo himself in there. There was no way they could have located you after that.

You set one hand over the back of the Arabian's neck before giving it a pat. The poor thing was heaving worse than both you and Lobo combined. "Good girl." You praised, letting out a sigh of relief.

The peace didn't last much longer. The door to your home flew open, and your aunt stomped outside, lantern tightly clutched in one hand. She even went as far as ignoring Lobo's cheerful face-licking greeting, which certainly had something to say about just how pissed she was.

"You know, when most people say they'll be back by dawn, they don't mean the dead of the goddamn night—" She scolded, but the words caught in her throat when she noticed your...passenger.

Her eyes drifted lower, to Arthur's arms, which you had hooked around your waist to avoid him from falling. You suddenly became very much aware that the two of you probably looked like two buddies after a night of heavy drinking: Arthur had passed out against you, forehead leaned against your upper back.

"And you brought a stranger home too, I see."

"He's not..." You began, stifling a tired huff. "...a stranger. He's a friend. And he needs help."

"Well, there ain't much of a cure for hangovers other than a good night's rest—"

"He's been shot."

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

"Mind telling me what his name is?" Aunt Cathy asked while she undid Arthur's shirt, peeling the blood-soaked fabric off of his skin. "And where you met this friend of yours?"

"Does this seem like a good time to ask questions about how I met him? He's bleeding out on our kitchen floor!"

She huffed, tucking a strand of grey hair behind her ear as she opened a cabinet to retrieve a bottle of whiskey. "Does midnight seem like a good time to bring home an injured stranger, (y/n)? Don't you get cocky with me." She was talking quickly — a habit of hers whenever she got angry. She poured some whiskey out on a rag, then began cleaning the injury with it.

"Wait, that much alcohol would hurt—"

"He ain't exactly awake to feel it, now, is he?" Your aunt retorted, not looking up from Arthur's wound. In spite of her anger, her movements were as soft as you remembered them to be when you had gotten into trouble as a child and she had patched you up. "Be a dear and fetch me uncle Frank's hunting knife. We've got to get that bullet outta there."

You nodded your head and rose to your feet, glancing at Arthur's pale, almost lifeless face once more. His lips were of a light pink and dry, his breathing was shallow, practically nonexistent. Maybe you shouldn't have intervened. But maybe then he'd already be dead by now.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Cathy cleaned her hands on the already bloodied rag before she threw it in a washbasin, then wiped off the sweat from her forehead. She gave one last glance to the stitched up wound before she rose to her feet with a tired huff. Slowly, she padded around Arthur's frame, towards his legs, grabbing a hold of both his ankles in one hand each before nodding at you and his torso. You complied.

You hooked your arms around him, trying to avoid damaging his injury any further, and slowly lifted him. Good lord, this man was built like a brick house.

"Where are we taking him?" You asked.

"Your friend, your room." She answered, sounding as fed up as the moment you had gotten home. And to be completely honest, she had all the rights to — you'd waken her up in the middle of the night, had brought home an injured outlaw instead of cash, and had practically made her perform an impromptu surgery on him as well.

So an okay as a meek answer was about the only answer you were entitled to. The both of you struggled to drag Arthur into your room. Lifting him enough to place him on your bed proved to be an even bigger challenge, but somehow you had managed. 

By the time you had finished with the laborious task, both you and your aunt were breathing with exhaustion. Yet, Cathy's gaze was anything but. Her usual relentless curiosity had returned, and it darted between you and Arthur as if she was piecing things together.

"Mind telling me his name now?"

"Arthur." You clarified. "His name is Arthur."

"Hmm. And how'd you meet this" — She eyed his gun belt — "fine gentleman?"

"While I was out hunting, once. He saved my life." You gave yourself a mental pat on the back for the fact that while telling her that did feel like a lie, it actually wasn't one. "He also helped me catch the white Arabian. He was...well, he gave me those seventy five dollars for it."

"Oh, I see." She smirked at you knowingly, some of her hair falling out of her bun. She hurried to tuck it behind her ear. "So it wasn't the stablehand you were being sweet on."

"I wasn't being sweet on anybody!" You retorted, apparently loudly enough for her smile to widen a fraction. "He saved my life, so I'm doing the same for him. I owe him this."

"And you owe me a good night's rest, but that isn't happening." Your aunt sighed, then pinched the bridge of her nose. "You keep an eye on him. I'm getting some more sleep before dusk."

"Okay." You nodded your head, pulling up a chair beside your bed. As your aunt walked out of the room, you flashed her soft a smile before calling out to her. "Hey, Cath?"

She turned around just before closing the door behind her. "Yes?"

"Thank you. For everything." 

She smiled back. "He better be worth it."


	21. Chapter 21

After an idleness of roughly ten minutes, which you had used to sort your thoughts, you decided you had spent just about enough time sitting around. You wanted make yourself useful, and the first thing that came to mind was washing Arthur's bloodsoaked clothes and stitching up the holes.

 

But you couldn't deny your little hero some spoiling either. Especially not when he had padded up to your side and nuzzled his head under your hand with a tired yawn. Lobo was deserving of some recognition. So you dished out the finest meat you could find in the house and served it to Lobo, all while whispering words of praise and scratching him behind his ears.

 

When all that was done and your dog had curled up in the corner of the room, you blinked away the tiredness from your eyes and stood up. You lazily walked into the kitchen, cleaned the blood off the floor, then picked up Arthur's clothes and a washbasin. You started with his plain white shirt, which was an absolute pain to clean. Second came his jacket, which you noticed seemed...unusually heavy. You checked the pockets by patting them down — lo and behold: there was a booklet in one. No, not a booklet, you realized as you retrieved it, but his journal.

 

You shouldn't be prying, you knew that. That object, that small, trivial little notebook, which was in your hands right now, presumably held all of Arthur's thoughts and hopes and dreams—

 

And drawings.

 

You told yourself that, well, it wasn't technically prying, seeing as he had shown you the drawing of the white horse before. He wouldn't mind you looking at it a second time, would he?

 

Of course not. You wouldn't peek at anything else, obviously.

 

With that in mind, you began flipping through the pages, quickly enough to not allow yourself to make out any words, just the drawings. Your jaw almost dropped at all the picturesque illustrations you'd stumbled across. Places and people and animals and plants, and all of them drawn so utterly true to life that even looking at them felt like seeing them with your own eyes, as if you'd been there in person when he had put those artworks on paper.

 

No. You were prying. You were only looking for the white Arabian, not—

 

A drawing of Lobo made you stop abruptly. He was drawn in a sitting position, facing towards you — or Arthur, in that case — with his head curiosity tilted and ears perked. The curious glimmer in his eyes had been captured perfectly.

 

“Woke up to a dog licking my face. A German Shepherd, I reckon. Cheerful little fellow. I wonder who he belongs to?”

 

More than curious now, you turned over the page, where you found a quick sketch of a wolf pelt. And on the other side, one of you, scowl on your face as you stared at a minimalistically drawn bottle of whiskey.

 

“Saved a woman from the wolf I had been out hunting for. (Y/n) was her name. (Y/n) (l/n). She said she was looking for her dog so I connected the dots and told her I had found it. I offered to take her to my camp, where the dog was.

 

She was scared of going with me, which I cannot blame her for. I offered her some of my supplies so she could nurse her wound. I have no idea why I did that. Maybe Williamson is right and I have truly gone soft, or maybe she was acting like such a fool that it only seemed natural for me to help. I offered her to stay overnight, since I didn't particularly like the thought of finding her dead in the morning.

 

She is a real strange one. Both naive and leery, proud and humble, foolish and smart. I don't know what to make of her just yet.

 

We shall see.”

 

You smiled, though you didn't have the slightest clue as to why exactly you were doing it. Something about the way Arthur put his thoughts to words was utterly endearing.

 

“Woke up early and checked on her. She was still breathing, so I guess I got what I wanted. We talked a little after she woke up, too. Apparently she used to catch wild horses and sell them. I told her about the white Arabian I had seen up in Ambarino, and she offered to assist me, despite...everything. I guess she feels like she owes me for saving her. Seeing how my luck is with just about anyone and everything as of late, I feel like I shall somehow make a fool of myself quite soon.”

 

The rest of the page was empty. Part of you thought that may have been because he had stopped writing there, but another urged you to check the other page, just to be sure.

 

There was more.

 

“I was right. I did make a fool of myself. Spooked the horse like the idiot that I am and let her do the dirty work. But then she also made a fool of herself when she tried to mount it, so I guess we're even after all.

 

(Y/n) has proven to be plenty interesting. She's an open book, though it's quite obvious she tries not to be. Talking to her is easy because of that. Her curiosity, however, might end up being the death of her one day. I suppose I am not in a position to judge.

 

We rode into Valentine, where we tried to sell the horse to some stuck-up stablehand. (Y/n) nearly slit his throat, which amused me, though I didn't show it.

 

I offered her 75 dollars and told her I would sell the Arabian for 150, though I reckon I'll keep it. She suggested I name it — her — Blizzard. Maybe.”

 

You were about to close it and put it away when you noticed another drawing of a scene that was all too familiar. The saloon in Saint Denis. A scribble of the scowling pianist, and a drawing of you, spread out on one page, holding a bottle of beer and smiling goofily as you stared off into the distance.

 

“Stumbled across (y/n), the woman from a few days earlier, in Saint Denis. Don't know how she found me, but she did, and I found myself thrilled with her presence. We drank the night away — which is probably why it ended the way it did. She challenged me to chat up any woman at the bar and convince her to share a room with me. Being the unlucky bastard that I am, I accidentally picked the damn pianist's wife, out of all the women in that damn place.

 

Almost started a bar fight, but (y/n) intervened before anything else could happen. Don't know if I was thankful for that or not.

 

She offered to rent out a room for the two of us to make up for it. I didn't know what to think of it, but agreed. Turns out the liquor had gone to her head and her intentions weren't all that pure — not that I would complain.

 

I guess I missed it all. Being touched, cared for and feeling a woman's warm breath against my lips. And still, I stopped her. Neither I nor she can afford to another Eliza.

 

I guess I ruined whatever there was between us anyways, didn't I? Morgan, you idiot.”

 

You bit your lip, stroking your fingertips over the page as if you could comfort Arthur by doing so. It wasn't him that was at fault. It was you, after all, who had initiated it all. And still, he...he had never even considered blaming you.

 

“Good Lord, I truly am a fool. I found a bounty poster in (y/n)'s satchel while she was still asleep. My bounty poster.

 

Of course that was why she had done all of this in the first place. Money $$$. I had just been enough of an idiot to fall for it. I don't know why I'm disappointed. It was, after all, me, who was stupid enough to think anyone would have me.”

 

Arthur's self loathing was what truly made your soul ache. If he would have been awake...well, you had no idea what you would do. But you knew he didn't deserve anything of the pain you had caused him. Arthur Morgan had a heart of gold, you were sure of that. The problem was he didn't know it.

 

The following pages told stories of people you didn't know, save for a few. There was Dutch, who was, as far as you could tell, as charismatic and over-dramatic as you'd imagined him. There was John, too. John Marston. The other wolf-hugger. An idiot with a good soul, as far as you had understood. Then, there was Hosea, whom Arthur seemed to regard as a father figure, Micah, whom he despised, and many others.

 

And in-between those stories, you found little segments about you, just sprinkled here and there. Little thoughts or pointless questions such as "I wonder if (y/n) took up another bounty?" or "Is she still trying to hunt me down or has she given up on the money?" and another, final sketch of you, in which you smiled peacefully while cradling the white Arabian's head.

 

“Don't know why I keep thinking about her. I know it was all pretend, and yet I cannot stop my thoughts from wandering to her, from her laugh ringing in my head.

 

Reckon I'm a bit like a dog, aren't I? She showed me kindness once and now I keep thinking about coming back.”

 

You smiled at the statement before closing the notebook shut. With a sigh, you glanced at Arthur's passed out form and shook your head. "A dog is far too domesticated for you, Arthur Morgan. You're a wolf."


	22. Chapter 22

The rest of the day was spent with sewing up Arthur's clothes, having an impromptu nap on a wooden chair you had pulled up next to his — well, technically, your — bed, and helping your aunt with work around the ranch until the late afternoon. 

Cathy had tasked you with various chores while she had retreated for some rest around five in the afternoon. You didn't mind. With her lupus having grown worse and worse over the past couple of months, you could at least take some of the load off. 

After getting everything over with, you returned to the small house. You found your aunt sitting in her rocking chair in the living room, holding Arthur's jacket and looking at it with a scoff.

"That's...um...that's his." You clarified with a nod in the direction of your dormitory. "Arthur's, I mean."

"Yes, I could tell by how horribly it's stitched up."

"Ah, that...would be my work." 

"Well, he sure as hell hasn't woken up to fix it himself, so I figured." She clicked her tongue, then stood up to retrieve her sewing kit. 

You watched wordlessly as she cut open the clumsy stitches you had made, removing the thread before getting to work.

Did that mean you were dismissed? Or was she waiting for you to say something? Do something? Sighing awkwardly, you crossed your arms and moved your weight from one leg to another.

"Well...?" Aunt Cathy asked, looking up at you through her lashes. "Aren't you going to check on your beloved..." — she paused for effect — "friend?"

"He's not—" You began, but flinched when you heard the sound of metal clashing against wood somewhere in another room. Your room.

"Love calls." Your aunt spoke up with a shit-eating grin, then shooed you away with a dismissive wave of her hand. You bit your lip in embarrassment and walked away, to the source of the sound.

You found Arthur (more or less) standing up, using the nightstand for support, breath heavy as he clutched his injured shoulder. His gun belt was what had produced the sound, since you had left it on the nightstand and it had fallen onto the wooden floor.

Arthur was staring at you like some kind of startled feral animal, ready to either fight or flee, blue gaze sharp and analytical of you.

"Hey." You said in the perhaps most demure way possible, which left Arthur furrowing his brows and trying to figure out if he was dreaming or not. When you audibly swallowed and slowly approached him, he realized he wasn't. Probably. "How's your wound?"

"Y'know they don't pay you more just because you patched me up, don'tcha?" The outlaw spoke up, voice ragged and dry, as if he'd just smoked an entire pack of cigarettes in one go. Arthur struggled to straighten up, but ended up losing his balance and having to brace himself against the wall. His gaze, in spite of his physical state, was alert in every single sense of the word, picking up on every small movement and gesture of yours.

"I know." You clarified with your palms turned up in submission. "But I'm not...I'm not going to turn you in."

He looked at you, his head slightly tipping to the side in confusion. "Then what're...why..."

You took one step closer, picking up his gun belt as you went. Arthur flinched both towards you and away from you the moment you did, frame tensing, then relaxing when he realized you had set it back on the nightstand.

"I couldn't just...sit and watch, you know." You struggled to explain, kneading your hands. You could practically see the wheels turning in his head, as if he were looking for a good explanation: Why could you possibly have done this for him? Judging by the way he regarded himself, both in his diary and on various occasions when he had talked to you, you figured out that him believing you'd done all of this without any hidden motive didn't even enter the equation. You were determined to try to fix that. "Not after everything we've been through. I couldn't."

Arthur's brows only furrowed further. He still couldn't understand at all, this poor man. Other people's good will must've been such a rare encounter in his life that he had given up on it entirely.

"So instead you risk your life to save—" He had to stop to draw in a dragged breath and steady himself to not tip over and fall. His face was increasing in paleness, but Arthur still refused to show weakness. "To save a fool like me."

"Believe it or not: yes. You matter to me more than you think you do, Arthur." You nodded your head, taking one last final step. You were then close enough to feel his breath fan your face lightly as he looked down at you in disbelief. You placed a hand on his collarbone, the opposite side from his injury, touch feather-light in pressure. You gently pushed him towards the bed. "Now, if the fool I have saved would kindly sit down as to not pass out again."

He laughed — though it was more of an amused huff, which was followed by the slightest hiss of pain — and he did what you asked of him.

"How'd you find me?" Arthur asked, sitting sideways on the bed, his back against the wall. 

"I happened to be hunting for the legendary coyote in Scarlet Meadows when I saw three riders in the distance. You also happened to be one of them." You explained as you walked over to your pulled up chair. Arthur cleared his throat and nodded at the space on the bed beside him, to which you raised a brow.

"'S your bed, ain't it? Would only be fair for you to use it too." He clarified, and you chuckled in response before plopping down beside him. "Sorry. Now, you was sayin'?"

"Well, after I figured out you were one of the riders, I decided to follow. I don't know why, I had already given up on turning you in, then." You played with your hands in your lap as you thought. "And when I saw the O'Driscolls had kidnapped you, I just couldn't stand by and watch. Though it all didn't go quite as smoothly as I'd hoped."

"You got hurt?" Arthur asked with the slightest hint of well-concealed worry in his voice. 

"No, genius." You nodded at his injured shoulder. "You did."

The look on his face was one of surprise and disbelief. "Me?" He tilted his head and scoffed. "I've— There's been worse. It's...nothing worth worryin' about. Honest."

You smiled cheekily. "You passed out on me, cowboy. I think it's quite worth worrying about." You paused, hesitating. "You're...worth worrying about, too, you know."

Arthur said nothing more. Instead, he stared at the floor, which suddenly seemed like the most interesting, enticing thing in the world. He swallowed audibly, an uncomfortable, heavy silence settling over the both of you. He shifted on the mattress, though not towards, nor away from you, just further into it.

"So it wasn't just the liquor that night, or..." Arthur began, though his sentence trailed off aimlessly. 

What night? You wanted to ask, but had luckily been smart enough to not make more of an idiot of yourself than you had often had. He meant that time you almost kissed, of course he did.

"No." You clarified with an awkward shrug. "I mean, I get bolder when I'm drunk but...I don't think my intentions change. If that makes sense." He still hadn't looked up from the floor, and you quickly caught onto exactly what the missing information was. "And no — my intentions didn't have to do anything with money, either."

When Arthur finally did look at you, there was nothing but uncertainty on his expression. His eyes peeked at your lips for just a second. Then your gazes connected, and your heart sped up from only that. Your palms felt awfully hot and practically itched to just bury themselves in that gorgeous blond hair of his. 

"That so?" He asked reluctantly, the smallest hint of a smile tugging on the corner of his lips.

"Yes. Very much so." You reached up to his cheek, gingerly cupping it in your palm. It was obvious Arthur had neither expected that, nor that he was used to physical affection. When he did finally process what was going on, he closed his eyes for a moment, as if he were savoring something rare and divine. Simultaneously, he leaned into your touch.

Arthur gazed at you through half-lidded eyes, nothing but pure affection in his aquamarine gaze. With his uninjured hand, he reached around your waist, reluctantly looping it around you to pull you in closer. You were attentive enough to realize his grip was gentle with the purpose of allowing you to stop him if you desired, and you were sensible enough to lean forward eagerly, giving him the confirmation he needed.

Arthur practically beamed at that, but said nothing. He settled his warm hand on the small of your back once you had climbed on his lap. The outlaw looked up at you with nothing but adoration and warmth, and you were certain that was what had made you fall for him in the first place. That gentle goodness deep inside him he hadn't lost, not even after all those years he'd spent in a dog eat dog world, after all the wrongs he had done, Arthur was still willing to be good and expect nothing in return for it. 

But when he did get something in return, it was one of the most endearing sights to witness: the almost childish joy he tried to stifle when he was confronted with affection, the eagerness that almost bordered on naivety when he encountered it — all of it was positively bewitching in a way you'd never considered possible.

You lowered your lips to graze his, and this time he didn't protest, but responded with a soft, experimental kiss.

The hand that had cupped his cheek you buried in his hair, to which Arthur responded with a fragile, stuttered breath. You smiled into the shy kiss, moving away from his lips, to his jaw, where you continued your small affections. He sighed silently in pleasure, tipping his head backwards out of instinct.

You smiled, kissing the column of his neck as you took in the sound of his labored breaths and feeling of his soft touches. When Arthur audibly swallowed, you stopped your ministrations, breathing a soft "Is everything okay?" against his pulse.

"Sure." He confirmed, his warm, calloused hands caressing your sides, stopping on your hips. He tentatively squeezed the flesh as he stared up at the ceiling, though you couldn't tell if it was because he was lost in his mind or because he was avoiding your gaze. "'S just that I was...thinkin'. Sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry for." You leaned back, sliding your fingers under his chin to make him look at you. "What's on your mind?"

He hesitated for a second.

"Just...whatever this is gonna end up bein'. I got, I got people relyin' on me. I got responsibilities waitin' for me out there, and—"

"And I'm not going to ask you to leave them behind, Arthur. I understand." You caressed his flushed cheek with the back of your hand. "We can figure this out. There's— We'll find a compromise. I know you've got people you care about, and I won't force you to leave them behind for me."

"I'm livin' a dangerous life (y/n)." He spoke, his hands idly drawing patterns on your clothed hips. "I won't be able to take care of you, and I won't—"

"I can take care of myself just fine." You answered with a smirk. "We can meet up every now and then, and make this work."

"And the other gangs? What if they attack you, kill you?"

"I think I made it pretty clear whose side I was on when I popped up in that O'Driscoll camp and started shooting like crazy." Arthur huffed in amusement at your answer, nuzzling his face into the crook of your shoulder, where he reluctantly planted a chaste kiss. You giggled at the sensation, tugging him away from your neck. "Focusing on the present instead of the future might just come with a benefit or two, mister Callahan."

At that, he smirked wolfishly and pressed his lips to yours like a man starved.


	23. Chapter 23

A knock on the door was enough to make Arthur tense and you sigh in annoyance. Your aunt sure as hell had a knack for dreadful timings, didn't she?

You had shifted out of the gunslinger's lap in the blink of an eye, brushing out the folds in your clothes as you hurried to the door and opened it. You positioned yourself beside the entrance to hide the bed from your aunt's field of vision.

She stood in the doorway, knowing smirk on her face and two plates of stew in each hand. "Figured you and your friend might be hungry."

You blinked in surprise, shaking your head as if to put your thoughts back into place. Your range of expectations had been wide, but perhaps not broad enough to expect her bringing you food. It left you wondering just what exactly she was trying to do, if she knew Arthur had woken up, that was. 

"Ah. Oh. Well, thank you kindly." You got a hold on both plates, simultaneously putting your foot behind the door to start shutting it. Cathy would not so easily be shunned, it seemed — her grip on the portions of stew was iron-like, and she propped her own foot against the door to stop you. Goddamnit.

"Don't get ahead of yourself, now, only one of these is for you. Pick."

"I'm leaving one out for Arthur, too." You explained haphazardly, gesticulating over your shoulder, in the direction of the bed, which you hoped you had covered up well enough. "For when he...um, when he wakes up."

Her gaze left your face and instead skipped upwards, towards where exactly, however, you were uncertain. Until she spoke, that was. "Well, he looks quite awake to me, dear."

You choked on thin air, simultaneously whirling around, finding Arthur awkwardly standing behind you, one arm propped against the open door to support his weight.

"Oh."

Nonchalantly, your aunt brushed past you, stopping in front of Arthur, to which she one again offered both plates. He took the one that contained just a smidge less. As always, he never acted like he was entitled to anything, and never expected too much — bless his soul. You were promptly given the other portion and a spoon. 

No words were exchanged for a few moments. You could practically plapate the lack of conversation during the parched, awkward pause. Arthur was the one to attempt fixing it, which both terrified and relieved you.

"Thank you, ma'am." The gunslinger nodded at the soup and cleared his throat awkwardly, then tensed as if he'd just been hit by a sudden realization. He scurried to put away the plate and offer his right hand. "I'm Arthur, by the way. Arthur Ca— Morgan."

"I know. Heard a share of things about you, Arthur." Your aunt chuckled, waving him off indifferently. He had interpreted that as a sign of dismissal, and picked up the previously set aside stew, which he started eating as if he hadn't seen food in months. You followed his example and quietly nibbled away at your portion of stew as well, practically flipping your mind upside down in the search of something to say that would ease the entire situation as you ate. You found no such thing.

"And what kinda things you been hearing about me exactly, ma'am?" Arthur spoke up between two bites. He had leaned his back against one of the walls, and was curiously watching both you and Cathy. 

"Just about the things you'd expect hearing from a young woman who's being sweet on someone." She answered with a sideways glance in your direction and a never dying grin. You wanted to retort — you truly did — but the way Arthur's previously stone-faced expression melted into a more gentle, amused one was enough to render you speechless.

"That so?" He asked, putting on a fake dumbfounded expression you (and surely Cathy as well) could see right through. A smirk that promised trouble blossomed on his face next. "And what did the residing horse expert have to say?"

Your aunt laughed. "Ah, she did tell you about her very lucrative career choices as well! Did she happen to inform you about her newest profession as a hunter? Her favorite prey have been bears and coyotes as of late."

Only then did you understand that these two, goddamn them, had practically signed a mental contract of partnership regarding the first thing they had discovered they shared: teasing the living hell out of you. And you were absolutely powerless when it came to their combined forces. There was nothing you could do, aside from watching chaos unfold and coming to terms with your tragic fate.

"She did what just now?" Arthur tilted his head, shit eating grin on his face. He set the empty plate on the nightstand, his watchful, amused gaze darting back and forth from your flabbergasted expression to your aunt's smug one. "The wolf hugger turned into a wolf killer?"

"Very much so, I'm afraid." Your aunt confirmed, taking both his plate and your almost empty one, making her leave. Only after embarrassing the shit out of you, of course. "I hoped you liked the stew, mister Morgan."

"The best stew I've had in years, ma'am." He answered as he watched her leave. 

You sighed, folding your arms, overwhelmed by the sudden wish to sink into the wooden floor and never come out. Possibly dig an entire mansion underground, where you could spend the rest of eternity lavishly bathing in mud and in undisturbed embarrassment-induced isolation. "Ah, Christ."

"Didn't go so bad, now, did it?" Arthur chimed in, grin still very much there, on that smug, handsome face of his. 

"Well, the both of you seem to enjoy poking fun at me, so it obviously felt like a joyride to you." 

"Come on, don't be like that." The gunslinger tried to soothe you, though you couldn't exactly claim it was working, especially not when the smugness in his voice had only been clumsily concealed. "You're my favorite wolf hugger, and that ain't changin' because of your aunt."

"Wow, that truly does help." You sighed, but could not stop a smile from blossoming on your face as well. He grinned wider at that too, and you had to shake your head at how childish this entire situation was. "Damn you, Arthur Morgan."

"You're late to the party, I'm already damned." He answered, sauntering over to the bed, where he tiredly plopped down. He undid the first few buttons of his shirt, which had you forcing yourself to look out the window, and at the same time, wanting to peek. You decided for the first option, though it wasn't necessarily the easy one.

You heard the shuffling of material and clothes as you stared at the fields outside your window, and the way they bathed in the warm orange light cast by the setting sun.

"I reckon these should be changed." You heard Arthur mumble, but didn't turn around until you were asked to. "You know where my satchel is? I got some spare bandages there."

The sheer willpower it took you to not stare at his naked chest like a braindead fool was unmeasurable.

"I— I have some. In a, in a drawer, somewhere, let me—" You turned around, making a beeline for your closet, in front of which you kneeled and began digging through the drawers at its bottom in the search of what Arthur had asked for. 

It didn't take you more than a good thirty seconds to retrieve what he had requested, though it felt like an eternity to you. You returned to his side, handing him the bandages. You swallowed down the rush-like feeling in your stomach, settling down on the bed beside him. "Need any help?"

"Nah. I'll be jus' fine." Arthur answered absentmindedly, unrolling the bloodstained bandage around his shoulder, checking the stitched up injury before putting a new bandage over it. All of a sudden, an ironic chuckle rumbled in his chest.

You tilted your head and quirked an eyebrow, which he picked up on.

"Was just thinkin' about how ironic this is." He clarified, tying together the two ends of the bandage. "We both got injured in the same spot. You said you preferred fightin' against people, I told you I preferred animals over people. 'N here we are. Don't know why it's so funny to me." He admitted.

"Fate, if something like that truly does exist, is a rather cruel little thing." You agreed, carefully setting your palm over the covered injury, ever-so-demure in pressure. There was the slightest hitch of breath in Arthur's throat as he looked at you and smiled. "I read that in a book somewhere, I think."

"I ain't inclined to agree — look at us. The wolf-huggin', bounty huntin' horse expert and the foolish excuse for an outlaw." He said, as if he were drawing a conclusion. "Fate ain't cruel. It just really likes pokin' fun at everyone."


	24. Chapter 24

The rest of that blissful day had been a blur of fragile giggles, occasional roaring laughter, steaming stew, and warmth, blossoming deep inside your chest and burning hotter with each minute. Heaven on earth.

You couldn't complain — hell, you wished this could last forever. You wished Arthur could stay forever, but you knew that was a distant dream. He had obliged to spending another night at your ranch before returning to his gang. You'd agreed to his terms.

You had also pulled up a chair beside your bed for you to sleep on, which Arthur did not agree with in the slightest. He insisted he take his bedroll and sleep on the floor or that he take the chair, you insisted on the exact opposite, and after an unfortunate (or in your opinion actually quite fortunate) string of events, you both ended up sharing your bed.

You had fallen asleep faster than you would have liked to admit.

Arthur had jolted awake around midnight, startling you. He had been practically drenched in sweat, and you had taken it upon yourself to soothe him. Turns out — you were a lot better at it than you'd expected.

You had successfully distracted Arthur for whatever fantasy had been traumatic enough to get him in that pitiful state, and that only with the power of trivial, little stories that had happened to you in the past combined with soothing, careful brushes of your fingertips over his skin. Soon enough, Arthur had also started to take part in the exchange, and was now telling a story of his own.

"...and then, the next day, just as we was passin' by the butcher in Blackwater, the damned fool pipes up and asks me, with Dutch 'n Hosea watchin', if I liked the fish I bought the day b'fore." His sentence fell apart at the end, turning into amused snickers. Arthur's chest bumped against your back lightly, breath fanning the back of your neck. His calloused fingers traced gentle patterns over your forearms — though the touch had only taken place after explicitly given consent and encouragement for you. Not that you minded.

You snorted too, in spite of the fact that your mind had been miles away just seconds ago, you had still paid attention to his little anecdote. Something from his early twenties about how he had been sent out by his gang leader to catch a fish, and proudly returned home with a huge one...only for Dutch to realize he had actually bought it from the butcher the day after, while they were strolling through town.

You made and offhand comment about the fact that a particularly good fisher wasn't what you were looking for in a man anyways, which earned a hearty, melodious chuckle from Arthur, and caused his grip around you to tighten, alluding to somewhat of a hug. 

"Does this happen often?" You asked, setting your palm over his knuckles and squeezing gently. "This whole...waking up thing, I mean."

"I guess." Arthur admitted, voice a shushed whisper. You could practically imagine the gears in his head turning, looking for the right words. "But that's what I got my journal for. B'sides, I ain't gonna be here every night to wake you, anyways. You'll have your rest."

That sentence did a particularly stellar job at reminding you that this bliss was built on a very much shaky basis. Whatever your new relationship with Arthur was, no matter how perfect it momentarily seemed, you knew his inevitable departure would follow, tomorrow, or the day after, if you got lucky. And while you really wanted to spend every second of the rest of your life with him, you knew it would be impossible to do so. Clandestine meetings seemed to be the only solution that worked within reason, and that terrified you more than you wanted to admit.

Aside from the fact that you felt like an absolute hypocrite for asking him to pay no mind to the future, but still doing it yourself. Goddamnit.

"That's not what I meant, Arthur. " You tried to explain, hooking an arm behind yourself, combing your fingertips through Arthur's locks as you thought. He shifted against you, forehead rested on the back of your neck while he embraced the physical affection with open arms and a soft grunt that made a shiver crawl up your spine. "What I was trying to say was that it all must be so draining. Everything. The other gangs, the law, the needs of your people- I wish...I wish I could..." You bit your lip. What exactly were you trying to say?

The foolish, borderline outrageous thought of running away with him crossed your mind, of becoming a gunslinger yourself. 

Were you ready to become the very thing you had looked down on for all those years, ready to become what you had hunted?

One part of you screamed yes. You had fallen in love with such a man, after all. Surely, being an outlaw yourself could not cause more inner conflict than loving Arthur had. Which, surprisingly, was almost unsettlingly small.

On the other hand, you couldn't. What about aunt Cathy? The ranch? The life you had known and treasured?

"It's okay." Arthur's sigh against your flimsily clothed back caused some well-deserved goosebumps to flood your forearms. "Me too."

You could not think of an answer worthy of him. Worthy of the raw feeling you were overwhelmed with in that moment, worthy of your relationship with him. So you hoped intertwining your fingers with his and bringing his hand up to your lips, pressing a chaste kiss to the inside of his wrist would suffice.

To you, it didn't. To Arthur, however, it was more than enough.

You didn't need to look at him to know he was grinning, and that made you happy in a way you could not explain.

Not until the both of you flinched simultaneously at the skull-rattling knocks coming from somewhere outside your room.

You glanced at Arthur over your shoulder. His entire body was practically oozing tension as he positioned his frame above yours to push you down into the mattresses as if to shield you. He peeked out the window.

The hitch of his breath did not foretell good news.

"Shit." He hissed, shifting out of bed, gesturing for you to stay. "Pinkertons, I reckon. Or the law. Maybe both."

"But how—"

"Wonder how much Colm got paid for this crap." Arthur whispered back. 

"What are we going to do?"

"You got a back door, or somethin'? Maybe—"

"Arthur Morgan! I know you are here, and I demand you come out of there right now with your hands above your head." Another three knocks, even stronger, followed by a kick against your front door and a warning shot. "You have twenty seconds until we set this building on fire."

Arthur scurried into a corner of the room, where he picked up his satchel and his rifle. You were about to ask him what he actual hell he thought he was doing, until he tossed you the rifle, then unrolled some rope. He positioned his hands behind his back and looked at you with urgency.

"Quick now, tie me up. Not too tight." Arthur instructed, and you complied. "You're gonna point that rifle to the back of my head as I walk out the door, and you're gonna ask for fifty percent of my bounty. Twenty, at the very least." 

"And you? What about—"

"This ain't the first time I'll be escapin' from the law. If I don't show in three days, you write to the name Tacitus Kilgore and send that to the post office in Rhodes. Say Arthur needs help, nothin' more." The gunslinger instructed as he walked towards the front door, giving your aunt, who had also woken up and was confusedly staring at both you and Arthur, a curt nod. "Ma'am. 'S been a pleasure."

"(Y/n), what the hell-" She spoke up, but refrained from saying another word when she saw you and the rifle pointed at Arthur.

You didn't know if she had actually understood what was going on, or if she stopped talking from the sheer amount of confusion. You didn't even want to know, to be honest.

Arthur stopped in front of the door, giving you one last glance, which contained an equal amount of an unsaid farewell as it contained hope.

"Don't you worry 'bout me, (y/n). Now, come on."


	25. Chapter 25

Nothing you'd ever done in your life had felt quite as wrong as pointing a rifle to the back of Arthur's head. The moment you'd stepped outside, you knew you were doomed: the house was surrounded by lawmen, and there was no way to move, much less escape.

"Good evening, gentlemen." You urged Arthur forward by positioning the barrel of your rifle between his shoulder blades and pushing lightly. "You're looking for this fine criminal, I would assume?"

One of the men, with a weathered face and skin that looked like it had swallowed millions of small bullets stepped forward, brows furrowed and chin raised as he inspected Arthur. 

"Him and you both, miss (l/n)." He explained, voice like a foghorn as he spoke. The man tipped his hat at you, though the gesture seemed more intimidating than polite."Agent Milton, Pinkerton agency."

Oh, Christ.

"As much as I appreciate the Pinkertons showing up at my ranch in the middle of the night, I had this under control." You nodded at Arthur's restraints. "See for yourself."

A pause followed, in which the agent's eyes scanned Arthur with disgust and superiority. Good lord, how you itched to shoot that expression off his face.

"So much in control that you have also nursed his wounds, it seems." Agent Milton retorted with a sly smirk.

"Well, the law wants him alive, as far as I know." You had to refrain from cupping Arthur's face and apologizing time and time again when you forced the stock of your rifle against the back of his head, not enough to cause a serious injury, but enough to let him know he should drop to his knees. You could not afford letting the act seem less believable than it already was. "And my aunt is very sick, so I could not afford not checking up on her. I ain't about to risk losing my money because this damn bastard bleeds out. That's why I decided I should tie him up, take care of his wounds, then turn him in in the morning. Didn't know the law was in such a hurry to get their hands on Arthur Morgan."

"Shouldn't come as a surprise, seeing as you were quite eager to get your hands on mister Morgan as well." Agent Milton grinned. "Three men who were keeping him prisoner have been shot near Valentine. Rumor has it you were the one behind the trigger, miss (l/n)."

Damnit. You needed to come up with something, and fast. 

"Of course I was." You confirmed, simultaneously trying to hide the subtle tremor in your hands the best you could. "They were O'Driscolls, after all. If I'd had let the situation escalate any further, they'd killed him, and I'd been left without any bounty to cash in."

He stared at you, but it was clear he did not believe a word.

"Very well, then. Thank you for your services, miss (l/n). Me and my men will take it from here." He looked over his shoulder, giving three of his subordinates a nod. They rushed forward, grabbing Arthur's forearms and dragging him to his feet. The third went behind him, checking his restraints.

"The rope's been tied loosely, boss." He notified as he tightened the knot, earning a silent wince from Arthur. You had to refrain from running up to that bastard and knocking him out right then and there. How dare these idiots put their dirty hands on him—

Agent Milton said nothing, only watched you with a strange kind of disgruntlement before he scoffed and turned to walk away.

"Hey, wait!" You shouted, moving to grasp the agent's shoulder. You found three guns pointed at you before you could even graze the material of his coat with your fingertips.

Agent Milton did, however, turn around nonetheless. His gaze looked like that of a bored adult's who stared down at some pesky, needy children that begged for attention. You hated that.

"I demand I get paid. At least fifty percent. I caught him, after all."

Roaring laughter erupted throughout the group of lawmen, with agent Milton's being the one that set the volume for everyone else's.

"Fifty percent? You, miss (l/n), have killed three men! If anything, you should be grateful for getting away without a bounty of your own."

"Forty." You insisted, and raised your rifle towards him.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." He warned, gesturing at his accompaniment. "For every bullet you put through me, my men will put sixteen through you."

You drew in a shaky breath. Steady, now. "Give me the damn money. I caught him."

"If anything, woman, you stole him, now lower that damn weapon before I lose my patience."

Next thing you knew, you'd been knocked out after someone rammed the grip of their gun over the back of your head.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You woke up to the wonderful, relieving feeling of a cold rag set on your forehead.

And the not-so-pleasant pounding of a headache against your skull. You groaned, pinching the bridge of your nose.

"Oh, thank God! You've no idea how damn worried I've been, you—" The familiar voice of your aunt began scolding, but abruptly came to a half when she noticed your pained expression. "How is your head, you fool of a girl?"

"Just fine." You lied, sitting up and blinking to adjust to the light. You were in your room. Arthur was nowhere to be seen. Oh God, they'd taken him. They had taken Arthur, they were going to kill him, they—

"What the hell did you get into? Who— why was the law on our front porch? At damn midnight, (y/n)?" She rambled, scurrying around the room aimlessly as she looked at you. "What were you thinking? Bringing that man into our home, then putting yourself in danger, and for what exactly? An outlaw, for Christ's sake! Why didn't you tell me your damn friend was a criminal? When was I supposed to find that out?!"

"Where is Ar—"

She drew in a shocked, angry breath as she looked at you in disbelief.

"In a prison, probably, where he damn well belongs." 

Your stomach dropped.

Aunt Cathy crossed her arms in front of her chest, looking at you sternly. She must've noticed your terrified expression, you were sure of that. You forced yourself to sit up, slinging your legs over the side of the bed. You were stopped with a push against your shoulders before you could hope to do anything else.

"No, I am not letting you out of this damn house, even if it's the last thing I do!"

"You can go ahead and try, then." You retorted, wrapping your fingers around her wrists and forcing them away from you. Somehow, you managed to drag yourself onto your feet. "I refuse to stay here and wait for him to die, and you're not going to stop m—"

Cathy tightly grabbed both your shoulders, forcing you to face her. Tears had welled up in her eyes, though her expression was nothing short of stone-faced.

"(Y/n)." She said firmly. "Think about the farm. About me. What am I going to do if— if you die rescuing some stupid criminal?"

"I'm not dying." You swallowed down the forming knot in your throat. You weren't going to cry — not now! "Think of all the times I could have. When I hunted down that grizzly bear. All the bounties I caught before Arthur. Think about all the times I could've died but didn't. This is no different." You tried to look at her insistently, but found yourself being the one backing down under her relentless gaze. "Let me go. Please."

She sighed, her palms sliding off your shoulders, caressing your arms on their way downwards, stopping when they reached your hands. Gingerly, she brushed her thumbs over your knuckles, choking back her own tears.

"You do care about him that much." 

It wasn't a question. It was a statement.

You nodded.


	26. Chapter 26

You had never arrived in Rhodes in quite such a short amount of time, though you supposed most of the credit for that belonged to the white Arabian. Lobo, the poor, poor thing had almost passed out in the dust the moment you halted in front of the post office in Rhodes. You gave him a soft pat on the head and poured out some water in your palm for him to drink before wiping off your hand and deciding to get to work.

You were about to whip out a pencil and start writing the letter to the name Tacitus Kilgore, just like Arthur had instructed. That was cut short by an announcement that started with two words that very much piqued your interest.

"Arthur Morgan of the Van der Linde gang has been caught and imprisoned this morning! Read for yourself, folks, at the low price of only 25 cents!" A boyish voice sing-songed. A newspaper boy was standing a few steps away from the hitching post, waving around newspapers and promoting them to the best of his abilities.

"Ain't nobody interested in a good read no more?" He insisted, looking around with a slight frown. You were about to approach him, but found yourself stopping dead in your tracks when another man rushed past you, digging through his pockets as he power walked towards the newspaper boy. 

"I'll have one." His voice sounded ragged, as if he's swallowed glass shards or sand, and his attire somehow alluded to that of an O'Driscoll that had just a smidge more of the fashion sense other O'Drsicolls quite lacked.

He wore a hat, which did a decent job at hiding his face, and his hair was black and oily, as if he'd dipped it in ungodly amounts of grease and pomade before slapping his hat on.

When he turned around to walk away, you almost gasped at the sight: one half of his face was practically torn with scars — scars that looked like they'd been caused by claws of some sort.

That was when it clicked.

"John?" You asked, rushing after him. The man froze, looking at you over his shoulder and a confused frown. This had to be him. Right? "John Marston?"

The increasing confusion in his gaze told you otherwise. Maybe you'd been to quick to act, and now you had—

"Who's askin'?" He questioned, turning around to face you. His right hand hovered above his hip, his gun, you came to realize. He was far less trusting than Arthur, that much was obvious. This wouldn't be quite as easy as befriending the other gunslinger.

"A friend of Arthur's." You clarified. "I was— he told me to— I...I need to help him."

"I ain't ever seen you in my life, miss." He answered, eyes watchful and hostile, never leaving you for one second. With a huff, he turned around, continuing his path away from you. "Arthur don't got many friends either, so I ain't inclined to believe—"

"Tacitus Kilgore." You blurted out, rushing after him and grabbing his sleeve. If this truly was John Marston, you wouldn't need to wait for the gang to find the letter. You wouldn't need to sit and watch, you could speak to their leader, ask to help and for help. John was your best shot. He stopped in his tracks, looking at your grip first, and then at your face, disbelief written on his expression. 

"Who told you—"

"Arthur." You clarified hastily, not letting go of his sleeve even when he tugged at it. "He also told me about you — John Marston, his friend that got mauled by wolves. I was, well, he rescued me from a wolf too, so that's..."

He finally turned around, facing you fully, his entire attention directed at you, and you realized that he was waiting for some kind of final proof that you did, in fact, know Arthur. How could you prove that?

The story.

"Arthur's also a terrible fisher, he, he told me about that one time when your gang leader had sent him out to catch dinner, and he returned with a huge fish, only for the others to find out he'd bought it from the butcher the next day." Great, that did not sound very convincing. What else? How else could you prove that you had no ill intentions? "He also told me about-"

John waved his hand dismissively. "Alright, damnit, I believe you." He nodded towards the hitching post. "Saddle up. You're coming with me."

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

He made you wait somewhere in the periphery of Rhodes, and returned with three galloping men.

While John had been gone, you had used the time to your advantage and read through the newspaper the gunslinger had handed you before leaving.

It didn't foretell good news. Apparently, Arthur had been taken to Saint Denis, to a heavily guarded, and — to quote the overdramatized article — a 'secret' prison cell. Your best guess was that it was underground perhaps, somewhere safe from prying eyes and charlatans that were ready to help.

There was also a hanging scheduled.

In four days time.

"I'm going to assume that's her, son?" An orotund, raucous voice piped up, which was your cue to fold the newspaper and look up.

You recognized the man, of course you did. You had not only seen him on bounty posters, but through your binoculars as well, not more than a few days ago. Dutch Van Der Linde himself.

"Yeah." John said matter-of-factly, dismounting once he was not more than a few meters away. The last one in the line was an old man with soft, gentle features and wise, but equally clever eyes. That could be Hosea.

The two other men dismounted as well, though John and the older fellow stayed behind, whereas Van Der Linde approached you with a honeyed, but equally sly smile.

"And who do we have the pleasure of speaking to?" He began, tones sweet and low as he slowed in front of you, folding his arms in front of his chest in a smooth motion as he waited for an answer.

"A friend of Arthur's."

"Oh yes, we have heard all about that, miss." He paused and looked John meaningfully, then back at you. "A name would be much more appreciated."

You considered lying, and you didn't know wether you should feel ashamed or not. But you could not afford such luxury. Both for Arthur's and your own sake. "(Y/n). (Y/n) (l/n)."

The man smiled, though it was more fox-like than genuine. You felt like he could practically see right through you and all your feeble thoughts, but you hoped he could also tell you'd said the truth.

"Dutch Van Der Linde." He answered in return, then gestured at John and the older man with a wide, lavish hand movement, as if he were showing you two of the most important people in the world, aside from himself, of course. "These fine gentlemen are my associates — young John Marston, and Hosea Matthews." He paused, looking at you, as if he could read your every thought. Not for more than the blink of an eye, though. The man seemed to detest not filling every silent second with his words. "Now, is what I've heard true, miss (l/n)?"

"If you've heard that I want to help you — and your associates — break Arthur Morgan out of jail, then yes. That is very much true."

The smile on his face was something you couldn't hope to interpret nor understand.


	27. Chapter 27

On the ride to Clemens Point, Dutch had practically bombarded you with questions about anything he could think of: from how you and Arthur met, to how he had ended up in your ranch. You had been so lost in trying to retell everything in as much detail as you could, that you hadn't even noticed you had arrived near an assembly of caravans and tents.

The group was practically brimming with people of all races, genders and ages. Dutch van der Linde seemed to be a man of little to no prejudices, which made him seem...a bit more approachable than before. You followed the three men to a tent in the middle of the camp, where you had been offered a seat at a small wooden table. Lobo had lazily plopped down next to you.

The flaps of (of what you assumed was) Dutch's tent did very little of shielding you from the hot, relentless afternoon sun. To avoid the curious, prying gazes of both men, women, a child, and even another dog, who continued reluctantly approaching Lobo, you focused back on the conversation around you.

"I reckon it could be an underground cell, maybe." Hosea leaned forward in the wooden chair, setting his arms on his thighs as he looked at Dutch first, then at you. "I've broken Arthur out of Saint Denis before, sure, but this isn't the usual anymore. They know who he is now — they're not going to let go of him that easily."

You had followed the conversation carefully, noticing that John had offered up the limited knowledge of the newspaper article by dropping it on the table for all four of you to see. Hosea was trying to make something out of it, while Dutch simply stared at the piece of paper, though you couldn't tell if it was for effect or because he was actually thinking of a way to go about the entire situation. You hoped it was the latter.

"Maybe they wanna use him to lure us into Saint Denis." John chimed in. "Just like the O'Driscolls did."

"We will take only a few men, then." Dutch spoke up for the first time in minutes. He nodded at John. "You, Micah and me can shoot our way outta there once we get Arthur, as long as Hosea can cause a distraction."

"I may be old, Dutch, but I ain't slow." The older man smirked. "I just need some backup. One man should be enough."

"Javier?" John suggested with a shrug.

"Sure." Hosea nodded his head. "Go and tell him for me, will you?"

"I'm not going to stand by and watch either." You interrupted, voice firm and hellbent. "I'll help wherever. The distraction, the guns, I don't care. I just want to see Arthur get out of there alive."

All three men were silent, but you could tell they all shared the same thought and realization. Your sympathy for Arthur.

Hosea then looked at John and nodded. Taking that as a dismissal, the young man walked away, towards one of the campfires, where he approached a Mexican fellow. 

You coughed awkwardly. "On another topic...when are you going to do...all of this?" You asked with a simple gesture towards the wooden table, eyes darting between Dutch and Hosea. "I don't think we'll be able to get through to the prison cell, no matter how big the distraction."

"My dear, you should not underestimate us." Dutch responded with that same, honeyed smile.

"She may be right, Dutch. We don't know how guarded it is." Hosea argued. "We should send someone there to see what it looks like. One of the women, to avoid raising suspicion."

"I can do it." You blurted, which earned a surprised look from Dutch and a knowing smile from Hosea. "Scout it out, see what we could do."

"Take Mary-Beth with you." Dutch instructed. "The young woman over there, curly brown hair, readin' a book in that tent."

You glanced where you were told to, an saw a pretty young woman glancing up from a novel, laughing airily when she saw a dog — more precisely Lobo (when had that little rascal left your side?) — and patting his head before watching him trot over to a young boy sitting in the dust with his own pet.

You gave the two men a curt, sincere nod as you stood up. "I shall." 

"Miss (l/n)?" Dutch piped up, and you turned around to look at him with a tilt of your head. "Leave the dog here. Wouldn't want to frighten any of those...feeble-minded officers."

Hosea was quicker to pick up on your slightly disgruntled expression and assured you that dogs weren't on their killing list, and that young Jack, one of the boys at camp, would be thrilled to have company for his own canine best friend.

So you did end up leaving Lobo in their care, momentarily.

But not without a hug and a treat before your departure.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Mary-Beth was good company, albeit nosy in the slightest. Alright, 'in the slightest' was a bit of an understatement, but it was quite endearing, in a way.

"That's all so romantic!" She sighed, spurring on her horse to keep up with yours.

You had just told her about how you and Arthur met, though you quite failed to understand what part of it caused that specific emotion.

"Romantic?" You repeated, voice going up an octave in both embarrassment and confusion. "What could possibly be romantic about almost getting my arm chewed by a wolf and embarrassing myself to a complete stranger?"

"Now, you ain't lookin' at it the right way, miss (l/n)." She argued. "He saved you, from certain death, in fact. Arthur was your knight in shining armor, that fateful night."

You chuckled and shrugged your shoulders. "The way I see it, you're reformulating my stupid mistake into sounding romantic."

"Maybe I am. Ain't too much of a stretch, considering all the silly romance novels I read." She paused, taking a strand of her horse's mane between her fingers and twirling it before looking back at you. "But I think he deserved it too, ya know?"

You raised a brow. "Arthur? What exactly did he deserve?"

"Romance. For someone to care, I mean. To care for real." Mary-Beth explained. "He's been used time and time again, and he's never expected anything in return. From anyone he's ever loved. So that's why I think...well, he deserves this — you. Someone that would risk as much for him as he would for them."

You leaned forward with a cheeky grin and a cocked brow. "And how are you so sure about that?" 

"Don't think I wasn't listenin' to that little conversation o' yours with Dutch 'n Hosea." She smirked right back. "You're dead set on gettin' him back, ain't you?"

You absolutely were.


	28. Chapter 28

You'd never seen something quite as intimidating as the Saint Denis police station. It stood proudly, imposingly, two officers beside each side of the main entrance, as if to scare off anyone that was willing to try anything.

But you couldn't care less, not when Arthur was in there. Nodding for Mary-Beth to follow, you entered, glancing around. The police station was pretty much empty, aside from a few officers here and there, and the criminals locked up inside the cells. You couldn't recognize Arthur amongst them.

It looked like you'd have to ask around. And what better place was there to start other than the small wooden bureau beside the entrance, where a young man in a uniform sat?

"Hello, officer." You leaned on the desk, putting on your most innocent and curious expression. "We was just...passin' by and my sister here started wonderin' if there happened to be a certain criminal locked in your station..." You gestured at Mary-Beth, who put on a shy, but very much winning smile.

The young man's eyes almost nervously trailed over your figure, next over Mary-Beth's, then skipped back and forth between her and your face. He added a yappy, shaky: "Sorry ma'am, we don't allow visitors here." Getting past him should be a piece of cake.

"Visitors?" You laughed dryly, ironically — that was, precisely, your intention. But he didn't have to know that. "No no no, officer, I wouldn't dream of it! Can't two girls just be curious?" You inched just a bit closer to his desk, brushing your fingers over his knuckles. "Especially if they're quite the admirers of the work done at the Saint Denis police station?"

"Really?"

It was the girl's turn to put her acting skills to good use. "Why, yes, of course! What you men do here must be quite laborious. I can't even imagine what it's like to be fueled only by thirst for righteousness and seek out these dastardly men just to put them in their place!" Mary-Beth sighed for effect. "If only the world had more people like you, officer."

"And if only the world had more women like you two, who recognize the hard work we put in—"

This was taking too long.

"Oh yes, if only!" You exclaimed and took the officer's hand in two of your own, smiling giddily. For Arthur. You were doing this for Arthur. "You see, me and my dear sister Elizabeth heard you could be keepin' one of them horrible outlaws here — Arthur Morgan, was it? Would you be kind enough to satiate me and Elizabeth's curiosity...?"

"Yes, indeed...I— It's Arthur Morgan, one of the Van der Linde Gang's most important assets. I can't say for sure but there's talk of hanging him in a couple o' days—"

You put on your best anger-torn expression, turning towards Mary-Beth and, letting go of the lawman and instead clasping her hand in yours. "Oh, my dearest Elizabeth, I told you it was true! I knew he was here, that horrible, horrible man! He needs to pay for what he did to us! And to mama and auntie!"

Mary-Beth was experienced enough to actually start crying the most convincing fake tears you'd ever seen. She started wiping at her face with the back of her unoccupied hand, looking between both you and the officer with big, pleading eyes. "Please don't mention mama! I can't— I can't bear to think of it."

"There, there, Elizabeth. I am so sorry." You gave Mary-Beth's shoulder a gentle pat, then looked at the policeman. "Please, officer, we ain't asking for much, we just want to see him, and make sure he knows what he'll swing for."

"Miss, he will swing, there's no need to-"

"Please. You have no idea what he did to me. To my dearest sister." Mary-Beth faked a sob, then gestured towards you. "And to my...to my family."

You took the officer's hand in yours again, looking at him in the most pleading, desperate way you could manage, which almost felt like showing your true emotions.

Overwhelmed, the young man looked away, to his side, and cleared his throat. Confused, you followed his gaze and — oh no.

Another lawman, a tad older than the one in front of you had been dozing away on a wooden chair in the corner of the room, legs sprawled out and hat placed over his forehead to cover his eyes. He lifted it slowly, then looked at the younger officer, giving a curt nod. But not without mouthing something you managed to understand far too well. Watch them.

A quick glance at Mary-Beth confirmed she was very much aware of everything as well. 

Satisfied with the response, the young man shyly pulled away from you. "I can take you to him, miss, but only with supervision."

One officer, inexperienced at that too? You could work with that. Hell, with the added help of Mary-Beth, you could even try breaking Arthur out of there. Maybe.

"Thank you. Thank you so much." Both you and your so-called 'sister' cried, then followed suit when he started walking.

Steps echoed behind you the moment you'd passed the older officer's chair. Shit.

Now what? You couldn't deal with two!

"Right this way." The officer's keys rattled as he guided you into another room with stairs that descended underground, into an isolated cell. Hosea had been right about that. "Arthur Morgan."

You almost hesitated to enter. Almost.

You took one last breath, then stepped in, followed by both officers. The small room was packed with other lawmen, armed to the teeth. Your eyes immediately drifted to the cell, searching for Arthur, until they stumbled across a lean, dark form laying on the bench in the cell.

He looked worse than you remembered. Blonde hair disheveled, eyes sunken and dull, staring at the wall. He looked like he hadn't eaten properly in days, if at all. Not to mention the state of his clothes, which you bitterly remembered he had always kept in a decent state. This poor, poor man. 

He had done this for you. And this was where love had gotten him.

"Arthur Morgan, you goddamn bastard!" You shouted, probably enough to wake up the entire neighborhood. He flinched at the sound of your voice, jumping up to his feet. You stomped towards the bars, just to see his face better, to dedicate it to memory. This could be the last time you'd see it, ever, if things went wrong.

His expression lit up immediately, shifting into one of disbelief. Your heart broke at the realization that he probably thought he was dreaming. "(Y/n)?" He then glanced at Mary-Beth, eyes growing even wider, but he refrained from saying any more names. Good.

"You bet your fucking ass it is, Morgan!" You gripped the bars, trying to seem angry, and not go soft at the confused, almost puppy-like look in his gaze. He was actually thinking he'd done something wrong, this poor man. "Listen to me nice and clear, because I ain't going to repeat myself!"

Confusion, as well as guilt settled on his expression now. It hurt to throw words like this at him, but you had a facade to keep up. "I talked to uncle Tacitus. He'll be there. With all our cousins. To see you hang for everything you've done, Arthur Morgan. To watch you take your last breath. As will I. I will be there and observe and enjoy every single second of it, because I want to make sure you go to hell and stay there."

You hoped you'd gotten the message across. It took Arthur a few seconds, but when a glint of enlightenment sparked in his eyes, you had trouble holding back a smile. Perfect.

"Oh, don't worry, woman, I will. And I'll be there, in the depths of hell, waitin' for you to join me." He growled.

He'd understood what this was about.

You turned towards the two men, ignoring the other heavily armed ones, and smiled.

"Me and my sister can't possibly thank you enough, gentlemen."

The older officer shook his head dismissively, then gestured for you to get out.


	29. Chapter 29

While on the ride back to camp, you had been lost in thought. Your aunt was right, whatever you were about to get into, it wasn't a mundane situation anymore. It was dangerous in every sense of the word, and while you didn't have any second thoughts about going through with it, you did have second thoughts about leaving her behind. Weren't you just the biggest hypocrite of them all?

When you arrived back in Clemens point, Dutch bombarded you with questions, and Mary-Beth was kind enough to answer a big percentage of them without your assistance. The leader had then promptly decided it be better if the rescue would take place during the hanging. With a bit of a distraction, that would be the gang's best shot at getting everyone out alive with little to (hopefully) no injuries.

After the not so short discussion with Dutch, you sought out Lobo, and found him lazily laying in the shadow of a tree with another dog, a Catahoula Cur, if you were correct.

When he heard you approach, he jumped to his feet and ran up to greet you with a delighted bark. As you crouched down to pet him, you realized you owed Cathy a proper farewell. Just in case things would go terribly wrong.

So you told Dutch about your intentions, that you wouldn't be missing for more than that night and a day, and that you hoped to leave Lobo there during that time so that the ride home and back could happen as quickly as possible.

He agreed, albeit reluctantly and with a warning that, to quote him, 'this better be no trick'.

You hoped the most sincere promise you could muster was enough to convince him.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Heaving was an understatement for both you and the Arabian once you had arrived at the small spot near Emerald ranch. Dawn had already neared its end, though just a little while ago. The sky was still saturated with dark colors, as if the sun, too, had said its last goodbye before disappearing.

You failed to see any lights turned on in the house. Was Cathy already asleep?

With a dumbfounded huff, you dismounted, petting the Arabian's neck before hitching it next to the humble house. You tiredly walked up to the front door, brushing out the folds and dirt from your clothes, doing a few minor adjustments to your hair, then brought your knuckles against the wooden surface to knock on it.

It creaked open.

It was so dark that you couldn't even hope to make out where exactly the furniture was. In your own house.

You felt as if you'd swallowed your heart and it was now trying to wrestle its way up your throat.

"Aunt Cathy?" You croaked, mouth dry and cottony as you stepped inside. Where was she? Why the hell was everything so dark? 

You yelped out in surprise when you tripped over something and landed face-first on the floor. The wooden planks below you had soaked up something slippery, which was now on your forearms and palms.

What...the actual hell was going on? Was this some kind of sick prank? Or perhaps some dumb dream? Every possibility flashed through your head as you laid there on the floor for a few seconds. Who was messing with you?

You couldn't stifle a scream when you looked up and were met with the lifeless eyes staring back into your soul. Your aunt's lifeless eyes. 

They had beheaded her. Her skull was what you had tripped over, and her blood was what you were smeared in.

Who was they? Who the hell was they?! Who had done—

You yelped when the door was kicked in, and a figure stepped in through the doorway, clutching a lantern.

You didn't think twice, rolling onto your side, whipping out your pistol simultaneously, with only one thought: aim for the head.

The person could duck just in time to avoid the bullet, and let it piece a hole though the doorframe.

"Dios mío, don't shoot!" A male voice shouted, setting the lantern safely on the floor before raising his hands to demonstrate his innocence. The man's frame was lithe, and you could see annoyance engraved on his expression in the low lamp light.

"Who..." You drew in a shaky breath, blinking the tears out of your eyes. Your gun was still pointed at him. "...the hell are you?"

"Javier Escuella." He answered on a flat, but gentle tone. The man picked up the lantern and approached you carefully. "Dutch sent me. To make sure you would..." His voice faded as he took in the house's insides. The expression of anger shifted into one of shock and disgust as he looked at the decapitated corpse, the blood on the floor, but ultimately softened when it landed on you. "Dios, es una matanza." 

You agreed with a sniffle and a nod, dragging yourself to your feet, wiping off your bloodstained hands on your jeans. Javier walked towards the wall on your right, which made you raise a brow as you followed him with your glance. He raised his lantern and squinted at it, reading something.

Everything comes with a price.

— C O

Was written on the wall with blood. 

You aunt's blood, you realized.

"Colm O'Driscoll. He knows how to write, who would have thought?" Javier spat with hate, but turned towards you when he heard you choke out a broken sob. He stared at you for a few seconds, dumbfounded about what exactly he should say, but spoke up after a silent pause. "I'm sorry. Was she your mother?"

Better than any you could have ever wished for. But you couldn't muster the willpower to say that out loud.

"Aunt." You explained, reaching up to your cheek to wipe away your hot tears, but ending up smearing your face with blood. Her blood. "These fucking sons of bitches, I'll...I'll—!"

"Hey." Javier cooed and set a hand on your shoulder, giving it as much of a reassuring pat as he could muster. "Hey. Let's get you out of here first, and then we'll talk about revenge."

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Javier had been more of a blessing than you could've possibly asked for. He had taken you outside the ranch when you could barely talk, much less walk properly, started a campfire for you, supplied you with a rag to clean the blood off your hands, and stayed with you, albeit silently.

After that — you were sure it was well past midnight — he helped you dig a grave, then carried your aunt's dead body to it all by himself to spare you of the gruesome sight.

"Well, now you can come back after the whole freeing Arthur business and make a cross for her, if you want." Javier stated while plopping down in front of you across the small campfire, dusting off his hands. "We got a fellow — Charles — he's good at making wood carvings. And crosses too, by now."

You didn't know what to say, though you could still see through the storm of pain roaring inside, and realize that although his words sounded detached, he was trying to empathize.

"Thank you." You croaked, staring emptily at the campfire.

The ache in your chest was more nightmarish than any kind of pain you'd experienced or thought of. You didn't tell her how much you loved her. You never said 'thank you for raising me in spite of the fact that I wasn't even your goddamn kid' before you left. You didn't hug her. You just left wordlessly, and so had she.

You stifled another sob, which Javier noticed.

"I can leave you alone, if you want." He spoke up, slowly rising to his feet, perhaps in an attempt not to startle you. "Though there might still be O'Driscolls around, since the blood was fresh. Your call, miss."

You sighed and wiped at your eyes in annoyance, avoiding his gaze while still staring at the flames. "I don't know." You admitted. "I don't know anything anymore, to be honest. I don't know why the hell I'm even here. And I don't...I'm..." You bit your lip and buried your face in your palms. What exactly were you even trying to say?!

"When I ran from Mexico, I...it helped to think of what mattered to me. When everything looked hopeless, I mean." He shrugged and stood up quickly, whistling over his horse. "Try and figure out what's important right now. And fight for it."

You stared at the ground, pushing the dirt and stones around with the soles of your boots as you thought about the gunslinger's words.

Meanwhile, Javier had mounted his horse and looked at you as if he was expecting an answer, a confirmation of sorts.

Arthur mattered. Him, you could still save, or at least try to.

"I'm coming with you back to camp, if that's alright?"

He gave a weak, but sympathetic smile. "Sure."


	30. Chapter 30

The days until Arthur's hanging couldn't possibly hope to pass quickly enough. You had explained your situation to Dutch, and he'd provided you not only with a place to sleep, but with food as well. You couldn't have asked for more. You had also gotten a bit better acquainted with some of the other members, especially the women, who had been compassionate and good to you ever since you'd gotten there.

You hadn't been able to sleep the night before the big event, and rode out to practice your shooting a bit, then returned, only to find Dutch, Hosea, Micah and Javier getting ready. Micah was sitting at the wooden table, sipping away on a bottle of beer, Dutch was cleaning his two pistols, meanwhile, Hosea and Javier were staring at a map. The older man was doing all the talking, while the Mexican just nodded in approval. You hadn't even gotten the chance to dismount before Dutch spoke up.

"Miss (l/n), where have you been?" The gang leader asked, but didn't look up from the pair of guns he was cleaning. You couldn't say for sure, since he wore his hat, but it looked like he hadn't exactly slept much either.

"Out near Southfield Flats, to practice my shooting a bit." You explained with a quick gesture at your weapon-stacked saddlebags, to which you received a nod. "When are we leaving?"

"We?" Dutch asked with a tilt of his head, and did, finally, look up at you. 

"Well, I'm not just going to lean back and watch, mister Van der Linde." You explained as you jumped off the Arabian and approached the group of men. "I'm a person of deeds, not words."

Silence ensued.

Good lord, how you loathed the mocking glance of Micah that now shifted its focus onto you. Ever since you had gotten there, he had done nothing but moan about how the gang didn't need 'another mouth to feed' or 'more dead weight', especially after he'd tried to convince you to accompany him to his tent and you had kindly refused. The piece of shit that dared to call himself a man scoffed at you, raising his beer to take a sip, then spoke with a grin that faded into his mustache.

"Women are all just words and no deeds." 

That had been the final straw, for you, at least. You didn't even think twice before raising your pistol and shooting a hole through his bottle of beer. He flinched, realizing he was holding nothing but a shard of glass, then looked at you with the biggest, angriest scowl you'd ever seen.

"That enough of a deed for you, mister Bell?" You spat. It took him a second or two to recollect himself, but that grin tugged on his lips once again.

"Maybe practice your shot more and aim for the head next time. Give Dutch a good reason to finally get rid of you."

You were going to strangle that damn bastard to death, right in front of every—

Dutch raised his hand to silence both you and Micah, then looked at you. "If you so dearly wish to accompany us, then you shall. We could use some extra protection to make sure everything goes smoothly, and as you have proven—" Dutch glanced sideways at Micah. "—your shot is more than decent. How about you get up on a roof in Saint Denis and watch our backs, miss (l/n)?"

It didn't seem like they were going to let you participate in anything of more importance until you proved yourself, so you agreed.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The town of Saint Denis was ugly at best. Grey, sad, and topped with a cloak of light rain that did a great deal of making it all seem even worse than it already was.

In spite of the weather, people had started to gather around the platform on which the hanging should take place, and continued increasing in number. In a way, you felt thankful — they acted as a good mask for both Dutch and Micah's presences. Hosea and Javier had already left, trotting down the street before disappearing around the corner. You lost sight of them from there on, so you focused your sniper rifle back on Dutch and Micah, watching them through the telescope.

So far, both of them were idly leaning against a building, chatting as they waited for something to happen. That continued for a few minutes, until suddenly, the both of them straightened up, which caused you to do the same, and peek at the wooden platform. Two lawmen were dragging Arthur towards the noose by his upper arms. The gunslinger had his hands bound behind his back, and frantically looked around in the masses.

When he did finally spot Dutch, his shoulders slackened in relief, but his face gave nothing away.

The third lawman, who was standing beside a lever, began talking, saying something that alluded to a speech of sorts, but you could not even try to understand his words — your thundering heartbeat silenced just about anything around you.

The rope was then tied around Arthur's neck. The officer's hand hovered above the lever.

Why wasn't Dutch doing anything? And where was Hosea's distraction?

You glanced down at the crowd, and had some trouble spotting the gang leader, but when you did, your stomach flipped.

O'Driscolls had overwhelmed both him and Micah, pressing knives to their throats to keep them still. Moving, much less freeing Arthur had become a distant dream for them. Shit.

"Do you have any last words, mister Morgan?"

You had to act, and you had to do so right then and there.

You didn't think twice when you pointed the rifle at Arthur's head, then raised it a fraction, shooting through the rope.

Screams of terror took over the street, and an explosion at the very end of it followed. Hosea.

No time to think. Load, shoot the lawman next to Arthur. Load, shoot the O'Driscoll that kept Dutch at bay. Load, shoot the other—

Too late. Micah's throat had been slit, blood sprayed onto the baby blue dress of the woman that was standing in front of them. A second, much more terrified and guttural scream ensued.

Dutch shot the other O'Driscoll before you could.

Javier and Hosea appeared from one end of the street, rushing to aid Dutch and Arthur, who had, thankfully, picked up a gun from the lawman you had previously shot. 

Now you would only need to get down from that building and—

"There she is, the fuckin' whore!"

Fate hadn't been merciful to give you enough time to react, and you had been knocked out with a sharp ram of a pistol's grip over the back of your head.

Perhaps that was the full price you would pay.


	31. Chapter 31

"Ah, you're up." A somehow familiar, boyish voice spoke up. You blinked, squinting to adjust to the light.

Shoulders and back aching, you groaned at the realization that you must've been resting on a hard surface. Lovely.

You'd never felt quite as trapped as then, when you realized you were surrounded by iron bars — a cell. It neighbored with that two other prisoners, who were quietly sitting on cots. You knew none of them, which still provided relief to some extent.

You jumped out of your skin when the metallic sound of metal clashing against metal rung out, and were surprised to see a familiar face.

The officer you'd fooled not more than five days ago. He had tapped the barrel of his gun against the bars of your prison cell.

"Bet you didn't think you'd see my face again." He said in a sing-song voice.

Indeed, you hadn't. 

But that didn't mean you couldn't try to use that to your advantage. After all, what good were acquaintances for, if not for being used?

"Why am I here?" You asked in a soft, innocent and high-pitched tone, looking into his eyes. "I didn't do anything...! This all must be some kind of terrible mistake."

"Doubt it, miss." He answered, leaning sideways against the iron bars as he looked at you. "My fellow officers found you on the roof of a building just opposite the platform where Arthur Morgan should've been hanged. With a sniper rifle and all."

You exhaled in relief. The officer's words rang in your head: Arthur should have been hanged. He had escaped.

Now only you needed to do the same.

"Look at me." You said, gesturing at yourself. "I'm a woman. Do I look like I know how to shoot a gun?"

"You don't gotta be a genius to pull a trigger, miss."

"How do you know I haven't tried to kill Arthur Morgan after he'd escaped?"

"Come on, now, we ain't blind." He explained, smile everlasting and slowly growing wicked. "I saw you shooting the rope, then helping Van Der Linde. Seems a bit like too much of a coincidence."

Goddamnit.

You sighed and pinched the bridge of your nose, plopping back down on your cot. The shabby, cheap wooden board let out a painful squeak. "Well, then. You people gonna hang me too, or what?"

"Killin' a lawman and a gang member ain't the nicest thing to do, but it don't compare to all the things Morgan's done." He laughed in amusement. "Nah, miss. We're taking you to the penitentiary."

Perfect. Sounded like you were in for a dream trip to a gorgeous island.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You sighed, playing with your sleeves as you tried to make yourself as comfortable as possible on small, the overfilled bench inside the cage-like carriage. A woman beside you protested with a grunt and a sharp glare, but said nothing more.

Across from you sat a man that continuously hit his head with his own palm, muttering something intelligible, and if you were to be frank, you wanted to put as much distance between him and yourself as humanly possible. Not that the cramped space particularly allowed it.

You mentally exhaled in relief at the fact that you probably wouldn't see him anymore after this, seeing as the penitentiary would divide you based on gender. 

Your stomach growled — a grim reminder that you hadn't eaten anything since the stew served at camp a good two days ago. You wanted to cry, though you immediately scolded yourself mentally upon realization. Your aunt was dead. Lobo was fine with the other dog at camp. And most importantly, you had saved Arthur. There was nothing else urgent left to do. What would a few months, maximum a year, you hoped, spent in a penitentiary matter anyways? You were going to pull through, just like you had always done.

The entire human cargo groaned and protested when the carriage drove over a particularly deep hole in the road, which earned a chuckle from the driver.

Jackass.

You sighed, wanted to soothe your backside by massaging it a bit, but groaned when the handcuffs rattled in your lap at your attempt.

They wouldn't make you walk around the penitentiary wearing those every second of the day, would they? That would truly be the cherry on top in your entire situation.

The carriage halted.

Every passenger, including yourself, stood up, leaning against the bars to try and see what exactly was going on in front of the vehicle. 

"What the hell do you want?" The driver barked, following his question by loading his gun.

So someone was there. Someone had stopped it.

"We certainly don't want anyone to get hurt, mister." 

That voice. You knew that voice.

Dutch.

"We just want some of your cargo." He continued, ultimately confirming with his honeyed tones that this truly was him. You weren't dreaming. You weren't dreaming! They had come for you! "But if you refuse to cooperate, trust me, we will kill you."

The sound of at least three other guns being loaded seemed to have done wonders with convincing the driver. Only seconds later, you saw him jump off the side of the carriage with his hands raised.

"Thank you. John, if you'd be so kind."

A rustle of fabric and leather followed, then a few hurried steps, and you saw John easily knock out the driver by forcing him down to his knees and hitting him over his head.

You heard the sound of hooves, and before you knew it, Arthur, riding the white Arabian, trotted around the carriage, shooting through the lock like it was nothing.

He had come to rescue you too. 

Due to disbelief, you couldn't move for a few seconds, only stare at him as if he were some kind of product of your hallucination. Your fellow carriage colleagues, on the other hand, jumped at the opportunity, bursting out of the carriage, scrambling away without another word. The moment you managed to recollect yourself, to think straight again, so did you.

You rushed towards the exit, almost tripping on your way out, stumbling your way towards Arthur, who was patiently waiting with a warm smile and a stretched out hand. You stopped just beside the mount, staring up at him with something similar to blissful disbelief, which he returned.

"Arthur." You choked out, realizing tears were brimming up in your eyes. "You..."

His hand cupped your cheek, craving your face with a demure touch you realized was something unusual, but nonetheless welcome for him.

"I did." He huffed in both amusement and happiness, wiping one stray tear from your cheek with his thumb. You grinned, moving your face away and putting your hand in his. Arthur easily pulled you up behind him on the steed. You had to wrap your arms around his waist, rest your forehead against his back, take in the smell of gunpowder and leather to convince yourself that he was there. Actually there.

"Thank you." You breathed, grip on his waist tight and strong as if you let go for even a second, someone could take him away from you.

You wouldn't let that happen, not again.

"Nothin' to thank me for."

"Let's ride, gentlemen!" Reminded the clear, loud voice of Dutch. 

You couldn't agree more.


	32. Chapter 32

Part of you didn't want to dismount, or ever let go of Arthur. But you knew better than to put him through the torture of the teasing glances of his gang members, so you got off the horse along with him the moment you had arrived at camp.

Thankfully, the prying, curious gazes could be avoided under the cover of darkness. The little comments, however? Not so much.

"We have gotten miss (l/n) back!" Dutch announced as he strode amongst the tents and caravans, which immediately silenced the whispers. You, Arthur and John followed him towards a campfire. "And this time, without any losses."

"Don't think there were any losses when you got Arthur outta there either." A young, black fellow that had been sitting by the campfire spoke up with a quick, but warm voice that practically radiated wit. "Getting rid of Micah was a bonus. 

"Besides, we always said we was gonna throw a party when he dies!" Another girl with blonde hair and a wide grin added. Karen, was it?

"Miss Jones!" The woman you recognized as miss Grimshaw scolded.

Amused snorts from the people that had also began approaching the campfire followed. Arthur also chuckled, but his attention was directed towards you for the most part. He took note of your longing stares at Pearson's cauldron, and leaned down to ask you a question you'd been dreaming to hear all night.

"You hungry?"

You nodded your head eagerly, which earned another smile from him. "Yes."

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You had to admit that there was something oddly calming about sitting by the campfire, your knee lightly grazing Arthur's, who was sitting beside you, radiating warmth in the chilly night air. Lobo was laying down at your feet, head set on his paws as he dozed off. Your second bowl of stew had gone lukewarm in your hands since you had also started partaking in the lighthearted conversation.

Javier was idly playing his guitar, a song in Spanish you could understand bits and pieces of, but didn't pay too much attention to.

"A few more like her 'n missus Adler, and women'll take over the damn world!" One of the men, Bill, you believed, said. You couldn't tell if the comment had been made with ill intentions or not, but quite frankly, you couldn't care less. All that mattered was that Arthur was safe, that Lobo was safe, and that you were safe.

"You're wrong, my dear friend." Dutch answered from the periphery of the campfire, but his voice sounded so clear that he may have very well been sitting right next to you. "A few more like her and Sadie, and there would be no world left!"

Some of the men laughed, but Arthur only glanced down at you and smiled — perhaps the goofiest, most lopsided smile you'd ever seen gracing that gorgeous face of his.

You answered with a similar expression, warmth exploding in your chest. You hoped this would never end. 

You could've sworn you heard a gravelly voice call out something among the lines of an invitation for poker, which lured a good percentage of the members away from the fire, towards a nearby wooden table.

Only Dutch and a few others had stayed behind. The leader was looking at you and Arthur both thoughtfully and knowingly. You realized that perhaps showing your gratitude would be adequate.

"Thank you, mister Van Der Linde." You spoke up, having finished your last bit of stew. "For everything you've done. "

"Nothing worth mentioning." He answered, and for the first time, you felt as if his sweet tones were genuine. "We save fellers that need savin', feed fellers that need feedin', and we shoot fellers that need shootin'. It's what we do."

"You're good people." You looked at him, and then at Arthur. You had to refrain from grabbing the hand he had rested in his lap and giving it an affectionate squeeze. "All of you."

The gang leader gave you a curt nod as a response.

With that, Dutch also wandered off, leaving you with Arthur, Javier and just a few others around the campfire. You couldn't stop a tired, but nonetheless satisfied sigh from leaving your lips.

"I think I'm going to go to sleep, if that's alright with you?" You told Arthur after a few seconds of silence, forcing yourself to stand up. With languid steps, you made your way to a washing basin, where you saw others had left their plates of stew as well, and followed their example.

"Sure." Arthur answered and trotted after you almost like a puppy. When you turned around to face him, you saw something that bordered on anxiety in his gaze. "You can...um, sleep in my caravan. If you want to. 'F you wanna sleep with the other women, 's fine too."

"Arthur." He straightened up when you said his name softly, rolling back his shoulders as he watched you. A laugh threatened to bubble up in your throat — his innocence when it came down to such mundane matters was more than adorable, but you figured you'd spare him the embarrassment of saying it out loud. "We've shared a bed before. What exactly makes you think..."

"Dunno, figured you might be tired, n' all that."

"If anything, you're being foolish, mister Morgan." You giggled, then took his big, calloused hand in yours. He blushed at that, frantically looking around before staring down at the dusty ground. You brushed your thumb over his palm. "Lead the way."

He gladly did.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You hadn't managed to fall asleep, but you should've expected it. There was just too much you wanted to tell him, and quite frankly, you would gladly battle with your tiredness over and over again if it meant you could hear Arthur's low, soft voice as he talked to you.

Your head was on his collarbone, one of your legs hooked around his, one hand splayed out on his lightly clothed chest, the other playing with his hair. You mentally thanked whoever had come up with the ingenious idea of creating leather flaps to provide you with privacy, albeit only flimsily so.

"What're you gonna do now?" Arthur asked, every world rumbling in his chest as he spoke. His eyes closed when you traced soft patterns over his bearded jaw. "Become an outlaw?"

"Don't think I have much of a choice anyways." You answered, nestling against him when he had silently urged you to do so by pulling you even closer. 

"Javier told me. About Cathy, I mean. 'M sorry." Your head and hand raised and fell when Arthur inhaled shakily, but deeply. "If I only I hadn't—"

Fighting the fact that he considered himself guilty for her death would be futile, you knew that. But perhaps that thought could be gently coaxed from him, in time. Perhaps everything he loathed about himself could be loved away, though you heavily doubted it, you were willing to try. In time.

"It's not your fault, Arthur. It's not anyone's fault but the O'Driscolls'." You argued, and placed a chaste kiss on his shoulder. 

Arthur fell silent. He stared up at the ceiling of his tent, though you couldn't tell if it was out of embarrassment or with the purpose of clearing his thoughts. After a few seconds, he put his lips to the crown of your head, whispering softly, but sincerely: "You're too kind to me."

"Maybe you're too harsh on yourself." You planted a kiss just below his jaw, working your way upwards — punctuation to your sentence, evidence that you had very much meant what you'd just said. "Maybe you should..." Your lips reached the corner of his mouth. "...accept the goodness that comes to you more openly."

"Not like there's much goodness to speak of." He responded with a grin, tilting his head towards yours, so that his breath was now tickling your lips when he whispered. His eyes found yours, and that shy grin of his grew cheekier, reminding you of the bared fangs of a wolf. "But I reckon I can try."

"That's perfect." You grinned back before pressing your lips to his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! This has been my first RDR2 fic, so the characterizations of certain characters might be a bit off. I hope you enjoyed nonetheless!


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